


Spring

by thanatosx49



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Rammstein
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, I blame Beverly, Other, kill me now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanatosx49/pseuds/thanatosx49
Summary: Life is about the choices we make, the consequences of said choices, and the lessons we learn from them. Like why you don't ride your bicycle while distracted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Beverly, Sam and Ella. I shall never stop facepalming and the embarrassment from having written this is real. 
> 
> This started as the world's daftest writing prompt (someday I'll forgive you Bev, lol) and then turned into the plot bunny that wouldn't die, no matter how much I tried to ignore it.
> 
> And yes, I know this is probably the most unlikely pairing in the history of fan fiction. 
> 
> Did I mention THE EMBARRASSMENT IS REAL 
> 
>  
> 
> And of course the obigatory disclaimer of 
> 
> NONE OF THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED, I DON'T OWN ANYONE, EVERYONE IN THIS UNHOLY ABOMINATION BELONGS TO EITHER THE BBC OR THEMSELVES

Life always comes down to decisions. Whether to walk, take a car, or even ride one's bicycle. Whether to stop and have your morning coffee at a cafe along the way your planned destination, or to keep riding by and go without. Whether to take the time that morning to make a phone call to a loved one to arrange a last minute get-together before one's work schedule turns life into complete chaos, or wait until later on. Whether to stick to one's usual route or take a partial detour to avoid what could possibly be a photographer. No matter what one chooses in life, those decisions always bear consequences. And that's life: making decisions and living with the repercussions after you've made them, even if you weren't really even aware of said choices nor thought they would lead to such far ranging changes.

Granted, if one knew the consequences for every choice made, conscious or uncounconscious, most of us would probably be so petrified of the repercussions that we'd all stay in bed and call it good. Perhaps that'd be the correct answer, or at least that is what a man in Berlin would wonder later on, when he has had to live with the aftermath of said decisions. Hindsight is always 20/20, or so they say.

For the now the man is finishing up reading the morning newspaper, huffing with disgust at the absurdity of it all as he swallows the last of his coffee. There's been another disappearance in the area and as with the other two, but that's to be expected with the rising homeless population and the crime rate that's supposedly not rising. As if. 

His mobile vibrates and he glances at it, noting the time with some alarm. He's got to be at the studio in twenty minutes and he's really not got the time to spare, but it's his daughter. 

He answers with hesitation, feeling the momentary tug of anxiety that this is a notification of disaster or tragedy, "Hallo?" And breathe, because she's only asking to confirm their plans for a family get-together over the weekend. Time is short because they'll be heading out on tour over summer, with an album being released a few months after and all will be chaos and a full schedule for the next two years minimum.

It takes all of five minutes, because they're both direct to the point but still... he's got commitments. Disconnecting, he mutters a curse at the time and sprints to his bicycle. Fortunately this street is quiet with few pedestrians and less traffic as he pushes off, peddling steadily. He cuts across at the next intersection, turning as he spots the telltale glint of a camera lens. There's never any peace from the verdammt cameras and hasn't been in over 20 years. One of the hazards of the unexpected fame he'd gotten from letting his friends talk him into being the vocalist for their band. Now look what it's gotten him, swerving down to avoid ending with embarrassing photos in every tabloid and fan site on the Internet. Unfortunately, the side street he chooses is cobbled, the stones uneven under the tyres and it's times like this he almost wishes he'd stayed with the basket weaving job he'd had before he'd lost his sense and went along with Richard's idea. Speaking of Richard, he'd be livid if he was late for the third morning in a row, so the man speeds up, remembering there's an alley ahead that'll cut several minutes off, even if it's in an area anyone with common sense would avoid.

His bodyguard would be having a fit it he knew, but it's his day off and what's the worst that could happen? More photographers? Some fan wanting an autograph and a picture with him? Because of course there'd be a camera and at the worst, he'd be late and Richard would yell and be snarky for the rest of the day. He's faced worse. 

The alley is just as fetid and rank as it was in the 80's, but at least he wasn't being followed by the Stasi this time. There's litter and a couple rubbish bins he easily avoids, ducking under an overhanging fire escape from the block of flats to his right just before the front tire hits a hole, nearly sending him over the handlebars. Indeed, it's just as bad as he remembered, and slowing down is probably prudent, but he's not got time for that. A few cuts and scrapes wouldn't matter, he's worked with far worse. The end of the alley is just ahead so he puts in some extra effort because the back door to the recording studio will be in sight once he turns right.

Glancing at his watch, he sees he's got five minutes to spare and has a moment to feel pleased with himself before all the reprepercussions suddenly catch up with him. Distracted driving is always dangerous. Though in this case, instead of crossing the center line into a bus full of screaming passengers, this unfortunate man hits a second crack, one that's less visible than the first and far, far more dangerous. 

One moment he's feeling the full effects of gravity, the next there's a flash before all goes dark and he experiences a whole different sort of weightlessness.

 

 

"The sensors are going wild, sir. Rift activity out on the plain, right near the car park again."

Neil looked up from his paperwork with a sigh. Three weeks they'd been out here in Salisbury, just the two of them, with a larger team on standby in town, ready to come at a moment's notice. They were largely going out of their heads with boredom, despite inexplicable rift activities that had so far turned up nowt but a couple of bodies, one charred beyond recognition and the other dead on impact because stone isn't very forgiving, plus a lot of rubbish, all largely unharmed. 

Fortunately, nothing had been pulled through from their side and nothing dangerous had turned up so far. Still, they were on alert because from past experience they all knew it could be Cybermen or Time Lord weaponry next time around. 

The press was having a field day and the Historic Places Ministry was having fits over the loss of tourism revenue, but they couldn't exactly risk some old dear getting hit with a bin or another group of children on a school trip finding out what happens when someone drops onto bluestone slabs from thirty meters up. Not again, at least. 

"Ta, Kerry," he sighed, reaching for the bin bag and his comms unit. "Call it in, yeah? I'm sure Tyler will want to be on hand to see whatever has turned up this time." 

"Don't you think..." she hesitated, wondering if it was even her place to ask, but she couldn't help it.

Neil was in the process of opening his door but paused, waiting for her to continue. 

"Don't you think it's a bit soon? Her coming back, after what happened and all. It's only been a few months."

Neil paused as he held his door open, having been in the process of getting out to do a visual check. "She's been cleared for it, I reckon. After all, it's not like she's never seen crisp packets scattered across a field before."

Kerry rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean." 

Shrugging, he grabbed his gloves and checked to make sure his utility belt and stunner were secure. As he put his helmet on, he replied, "Can't say as it matters to the likes of us. Leave the thinking like that to better heads back in London and let's just focus on our litter detail, yeah?"  
Kerry sighed. "I suppose you're right."

Neil grinned. "I usually am. I'll let you know if it's Walker's this time or no," he joked before pulling down his eye shield. 

"Ha, bet you a fiver it's fag packets."

"I'll hold you to that. A tenner if there's one left in it."

 

It's dark and cold, so cold, chilling him to the bone more than even swimming in the lake in winter doesn't. Except he can't move enough to get warm because he's not even sure where his limbs are, much less find the faculties to move because there's so much screaming and wailing. It's everywhere, inside and out; ceaseless to the point where it's become part of him and the concept of identity is starting to fade. There is no 'him' anymore, just an eternal wail full of dark longing and raging desires. Recording studios, morning coffees and being late are merely inconsequential, as are paparazzi, concert tours, and the egregious use of pyrotechnics. Then comes apathy and acceptance as the cold and shrieking saps the will to struggle against it. It is relentless, gnawing through to the bone, bypassing where the ears would have once been and burrowing straight into the consciousness. 

It's almost like drowning, drifting down into the depths of a cold lake on a winter's morning. The memory of unseen reeds caressing his frozen flesh, beckoning him further into the deep, where the muddy bottom lie in wait to accept him. Except there was no bottom here, nor up, down or any direction at all, merely a dark infinity. If he had been drowning, perhaps his life would have flashed before his eyes, but memory too had gone. Snippets of a life, past cares, and relationships gone sour are inconsequential indeed when laid against pure eternity and it all simply fades into the ether. 

After a time -- if indeed time is something that exists in such a place -- he is one with the unending despair, and darkness. It could have been centuries, decades, or even mere moments -- but that doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore, not in the black. Except the darkness is suddenly light, and the laws of physics have returned, but the scream hasn't left. It's still there, just as inescapable, though it seems to be coming from his own throat as gravity catches up with him and he's falling. Falling isn't like drowning, and it's rather more terrifying, especially when all you see is a field with stones. He's not even trying to figure out how this is even possible, he's just praying the end is quick and painless. 

The last thing before he sees before it all goes black again is the top of a hedgerow. 

 

 

Neil curses as he sees it: a tan bicycle, in decent condition and looking well maintained, other than a warped front tyre. "All that excitement for a bloody bike," he huffed to the radio. 

"I'll report it in," came Kerry's reply.

"It'll just be a waste of time," he groused. 

"But that's the rules. Anything larger than a bread box and a full team comes out for a full scan of the area."

"It's just a bicycle!"

"And those usually have riders, since last I knew they weren't exactly known for wandering about the countryside on their own."

"Give it a month -- it could be the next one we get called out for, the invasion of the sentient bicycles from Alpha Proximi IV."

"Don't bloody jinx us, Neil. If something like that does show up, I'm blaming you. The team will be here within a half hour, so stay on location."

"Yeah, right. I'll keep a close watch on. You know, just in case it decides it's off to the pub for a pint before we've had a chance to catalogue it," Neil snarked back before clicking the unit off. 

With a sigh, he decided if he stepped far enough away from the object, he could sneak a quick smoke without contaminating the scene. Call it a 'quick surveillance of the area for the owner of said bicycle' if you would. He could chalk it up to taking the initiative, he told himself as he walked a distance away, throwing the occasional glance back to make sure the bicycle was still there.  
It was, of course, because it was a bloody bicycle with a dunted in tyre rim, and so were the standing stones, off in the distance on the plain, just like they'd been for the last few thousand years. A walk through showed no signs of anyone, other than a boot print in the soft mud he'd left on his previous patrol and the fag end that had fallen out of his pocket. Stooping to pick it up, he stubbed out his current on his boot before tucking both in his pocket --more securely this time-- before continuing on his rounds. Car park, fields, white fluffy blobs that were definitely sheep, the road, the van, and open sky. Nothing out of place, not even a crisp packet to be seen, other than the bicycle. The whole route took maybe 20 minutes before he decided he'd best grab another smoke before the cavalry showed and he'd likely not get another chance for the rest of the day while they went over everything with fine tooth combs and scanned every blade of grass and hedge for five miles. 

He feels the first drop on his hand as he raises the lighter to his cigarette and muffles a curse. Bloody fantastic, it is. Just what they needed. Because of course he gets to work out in the rain again, just one of the shit perks of working for Torchwood. 

 

 

Pain is what brings him back to awareness. Pain and the growing feeling of being wet. Cracking open an eye, he closes it with a groan as even the light filtering through the hedge is too much for his head. He's on his back and it takes all he's got to roll over onto his side, which brings another groan. Bruises make themselves known, as well as a general ache and the fact he's cold, so cold. A drop of rain lands on his neck and makes him shudder and tense muscles that immediately protest. Staying there suddenly seems preferable, other than the fact the shoulder he's lying on is becoming a source of growing agony and also, he's getting wetter by the moment. Mustering his resolve he opens his eyes to narrow slits as he sits up enough to scoot ahead while simultaneously shifting around to lie against his other side. It has taken what energy he currently possesses but he's here, tucked under the hedge on his left side, arm cradling his head which is still pounding like a drum. 

It's drier under the hedge and of course he's not made the mistake of opening his eyes again. He'll just rest here for a moment until he can remember why he's in a hedge or maybe he'll sleep it off instead. This surely can't be the first time he's ended up somewhere he can't remember how he got there, even if he can't remember getting drunk in the first place. Any how, someone will be out looking for him. Hopefully they'll know where to look.

His sleep is deep and instant and the next time he wakes it's dark, it's still raining, and the wind has picked up, rendering what little protection the hedge had once offered moot. He can barely see his hand in front of his face, but there's enough light to show he's still alone. No one has come, but then he can't remember why he'd even thought they would. No one would be stupid enough to go hunting under hedges for him in... wherever he was. There was nothing to be done but to start walking back. Not that he could remember where that was, but where ever it was, there'd probably be lights that he could see which would make it easier to find. After all, it couldn't have been too terribly far off. He only had trainers and a light jacket, and wasn't dressed for hiking or the like. Odds were he'd only come a mile or so, which was manageable. Or so he figured. 

It was rough enough getting out from under the hedge, as every movement hurt and his muscles had grown stiff. At least the dark didn't hurt his eyes, though it still felt like everything was spinning as he managed to stand. The shoulder wasn't feeling any better and a cautious investigation with the fingers of his other hand told him only it was likely adislocation. Add a trip to the hospital to the itinerary, he thought. Directly after I find... whoever it was I was drinking with. Also, never again. Whatever was in that bottle... Gott, this had to be the worst hangover ever. 

Somehow he managed to get himself walking, stumbling over rocks and holes in the dark as he went along, totally soaked to the bone but barely noticing as he put most of his concentration into putting one foot in front of the other. He lost count of how many times he fell, having to struggle back to his feet with frustrated cursing and swearing he'd never touch alcohol again. When he found the edge of the macadam, he tripped over that too, landing on his knees.  
Rain soaked hair fell into his eyes as he got back up, pausing while still bent over to catch his breath. It had felt like a long walk, but in reality he had probably wandered in circles. That or he has gotten too old for this sort of shit. But he's here now, found a road, and that's helpful. Follow the road and he'll find whatever bar or party he'd been at. Therein lies the question: the road is at a slope and he's got no idea which way he'd come from. It's too dark to look for landmarks or anything familiar, but he decides to go uphill, since he'd probably gone down it before. It's only logic, he tells himself as he starts walking, cradling his right arm and deciding he hates rain like nothing he's ever hated in his life. 

 

"We'll have to put an alert out to the police and see if they turn anything up. Until then, we might as knock off for the night. We've scanned everything and turned up nowt," Rose said with a sigh, waving her torch to signal to the others. She was tired and the damp had started to soak in, despite her rain poncho, and she imagined the others felt the same. She heard a muttered "Thank fuck" from Neil, probably and silently echoed the sentiment.  
Jake and Eric had already taken the bicycle back to their temporary base of operations for analysis an hour before, after helping them with their still fruitless search. The monitoring would continue, with Caris and Stefan having arrive to take over the van for the night. Kerry and Neil were going to ride along back with her to headquarters, both of already heading for the SUV at a near run.  
Not that she blamed them -- she'd been up since half four after a largely sleepless night. One of many in the year since... no, she wasn't going to think about that. Not now, she'd only end up getting upset and not be fit to drive back at all and damned if she was going to let Neil drive again. Last time they'd nearly ended up in a ditch because he drove like a demon possessed. Kerry was a decent driver, but slow and since none of them wanted to be out until the wee hours, that left the driving up to her.

The pair were arguing about crisp packets when she got in and the argument continued uninterrupted as she started driving back carefully, largely ignoring them. Rain was beating down on the windscreen heavily, and it was getting hard to see. At least it was not a heavily travelled road at this time of night and she could just imagine what the motorway was like, with all the shine from headlamps only making things worse. A couple times she thought she saw movement ahead, but she chalked it up to her eyes playing tricks on her even as she slowed down. She was still thinking it was her being overtired until whatever it was turned. 

There was a large man standing there and Rose had the impression of wide eyes and an arm thrown up to shield against the glare of the light just as she slammed on her brakes.

'Oh shit!'

There was a thump, and a thud as the man landed against the hood. Those wide eyes stared at her through the windscreen for a long moment before slowly closing and then they were all scrambling out of the vehicle. 

 

He wasn't unconscious, though, just groaning softly as he clung to the bonnet of the vehicle that had nearly run him down. He'd tried to jump out of the way, but between being surprised by people driving on the wrong side of the road and his reflexes slowed by exhaustion and pain, it felt better to just lie there. Especially since the front bumper had clipped his knee and he didn't even want to look. Hence the closed eyes. Also there was still too much light and their voices were too damn loud. It was all senseless babble until he realised he could understand them. English, he thought. Or something like. Not from... wherever he was from. He couldn't quite remember that, but he was sure it'd come back to him if they weren't chattering away, asking if he was alright and talking about ambulances and police. Next came hands feeling him over, checking for a pulse, and bumping roughly against his injured shoulder, prompting him to say something in hopes they'd leave him alone.

"Ja, ich... I'm alive. Just... my leg and arm. Need hospital," he gasped. "Don't touch, bitte."

Alas, that only meant they started pulling him up and dragging him into the vehicle. They were surprisingly careful with his leg as they manoeuvred him into the front seat, still talking away way too loudly for his ears. But its dry in here, one of his apparently noisy saviours is a pretty blonde that he'd glimpsed in the few moments he'd managed to open his eyes before the headache prompted him to once again close them. It'd be nice, other than that infernal beeping sound that feels like it's drilling its way into his skull like it plans to take up residence there for the rest of his life. Maybe if he goes to sleep it'll all go away. Even better, maybe this time he'll wake up and find it was all a nightmare brought on by alcohol or too many drugs. He's swearing off those, too, he tells himself as he once again slips into unconsciousness.

 

They can only stare at the man who's slumped in the front seat. He's a soaking mess and now snoring softly. 

"I don't think it's just his leg," Kerry says first. 

"Probably shock or trauma," Rose says, feeling his neck. "Could be hypothermia, though cos his pulse is fine."

"What the hell was he doing out here? It's fucking pissing down like mad!" Neil mutters.

"Could be homeless," Kerry offers.

"And wandering in the middle of the countryside? It's not exactly the sort of place you usually see that lot, Ker," he retorted.

"How do you know? Do you go out looking for homeless under hedges on your weekends?" she replied hotly. 

Rose rolled her eyes at the pair of them. "Come on, let's get him to the hospital, yeah?" 

She turned back to put the SUV back in gear, noticing her bag with her gear had fallen. As she bent over to get it, she suddenly heard her scanner going off. Pulling it out, she stared at it. The display was saying void particles detected. High concentration too. But that didn't make any sense, there was nothing in the vehicle but them and... 

While Neil and Kerry were still arguing, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a battered pair of 3d glasses. They were creased and worn and if the others had noticed her putting them on they'd probably have laughed, perhaps would gossip about her low tech choice for weeks after, but it was the one thing she knew would confirm her sudden suspicions. And there they were, golden particles dancing in the air around the man slumped beside her. 

"Um, yeah. I think we've found our missing bicyclist, people."


	2. Chapter 2

Consciousness returns in a slow drip. From being jostled about, then brought back to realise how cold he was and his leg hurt bad enough to make him want to shout, to sinking back into the dark as a somewhat familiar looking woman makes apologetic and soothing noises. Back up to more stirring, with bright lights and urgent voices. Someone's there, leaning over him, saying something, but he doesn't know what. Listening would require focus that he doesn't have the energy for, not when it feels like everything in his leg is coming apart and his mind is a swirl of chaos. There's the prick of a needle against his arm and the warmth of something flowing in that immediately starts taking the edge off the pain, but he still can't hear what they're saying because now he's floating. Floating like he did before, back when... But he skips over that thought, finding it too hard to grasp, much less hold on to, as he's pulled back under. 

Once again he wakes, this time to a room in shades of white. He's on his back, and he's not as cold as he was before. However the blanket's too thin, and his leg is hidden in swathes of white bandages. He just wants to see, to know, but there's suddenly movement at the door he'd not previously noticed and people once more are speaking gibberish. He can't understand them still, and he doesn't even try, he just wants to know what's been done to him, and why are there so many hands holding him down now? 

That makes him angry, makes him struggle more as he rages against the people trying to restrain him. Someone's leaning over him, shouting something, but the words just slip away like snowflakes before the wind. He asks what's going on, what has happened, the roaring in his head drowns their words. He just wants to go home, can't they understand that? Even if he can't remember where home is, surely someone does.  
Again the sting of a needle and he's back drifting, wondering when the world stopped making sense, not taking into account that it probably never did, before his ability to care slips away as well. There's a different face leaning over him, speaking sternly with a serious expression that fades towards frustrated exhaustion as his eyes close again.

Next time there is someone with a tray offering him tasteless mush on a spoon. He's not hungry, but they are insistent. Reaching for the spoon, he finds his shoulder hurts too much to lift his arm, and he lets his arm rest once more at his side. Trying to avoid the unappetizing meal, he asks again where he is, because everything before the shock of bright lights followed by impact is a haze, much like everything since. He can almost understand their answer, but the meaning slides away before he can grasp it, leaving him more frustrated. All he knows is that something is wrong, horribly wrong and reality seems to be hanging by a very thin thread, apt to be severed by the slightest tug on the line. He needs to be away from here, needs to go back to... wherever. He doesn't know where, just knows it's not here, wherever this is. The person with the spoon is motioning at him again and he gives in. Resistance is futile, at least in this. He eats half-heartedly, managing to stay awake long enough to see the person who kindly fed him leave, before he muzzily sits up. Everything is soft and fuzzy and the room spins even harder, but it doesn't matter. He's got to go...  
Once he's shifted enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed and lever himself off the bed, he finds there's still tubes in his arms but it's only a little bit of effort to rip them out. It's far more difficult taking the first steps— especially when it's almost pure agony to put any weight on the wrapped leg. A uneven shuffle is all he manages, using the bed for support. Several minutes pass and he's barely to the end of the bed, already shaking and sweating, but he's not giving up. This isn't his place, he needs to find... someone. Perhaps someone knows what happened and why he can't remember. 

Time seems to stretch and lag as he straightens and stands there in the gap between bed and door. Out there is everything else. Including all the answers he doesn't have, and someone or something that can make the roaring in his mind go away. Unfortunately, his leg won't support his weight, there's nothing to hold onto, and he's losing both balance and strength. Fortunately, he manages to fall towards the door and doesn't land on the injured leg. Unfortunately, he does land on his shoulder, hard enough to force the air from his lungs and a groan from his lips. Once he gets his breath back, he finds it's easier this way, and scuttles across the floor to the doorway where he pulls himself up with one arm. Pausing to breathe again, he glances down, the view of his feet fading in and out. He does not notice the blood seeping through the bandage or dripping down his arm from where the IV line was. It wouldn't matter to him anyhow, as his thoughts were too focused on escape. 

Outside the door is a hallway. Long, white, and lined with doors, and most fortuitously bearing a railing down the side. Even better, at the far end are doors that have a lighted sign above them with EXIT in red. He knows and understands that word, even if he's understood nothing else since he woke up under a hedge. It means freedom, and that's where he's going. 

One hand on the railing and good shoulder against the wall, he steps forward with his good leg, gritting his teeth before swinging the other one forward and stepping down. His injured knee almost buckles and he feels something pull and tear, but it holds. Shaking even more, he continues. The floor has tile that slips and slides under the blue socks he'd somehow acquired and he's cold again as he limps along, clinging in desperation to the rail. He can't remember what had happened to his clothes either, the ones he remembers waking up in that were definitely not a pair of thin cotton shorts and a thin shirt that's useless against the chill of this place. He almost falls several times, catching himself at the last moment.

The second door down the hallway from the one he escaped out of is almost in reach when hands suddenly grab his shoulders. There's a person in a blue uniform pulling him around, yelling something unintelligible as the tile finally manages to make him slip and fall. More people come running just as he manages to sit up again, all while pushing away the hands of his apparent captor. They also start grabbing him and he's fighting them all, despite the roaring in his head getting so loud that he can only hear his own breathing as he tries to pull away. Rushing air and grasping hands, far too many of them to fight, but he's not a quitter. Or at least he doesn't think he is, but for the now he's definitely not. Everything is threatening to overwhelm him and his strength is fading fast when someone finally manages to hang on to his arm and hold it before he can pull it away or shove them off. 

Blurry faces surround him as someone pins his arm and once again the prick of a needle. As it all fades to black again, he vows to never give up and never give in. Somewhere someone has the truth and he will find it. 

Next time he wakes, everything from head to toe hurts. Groaning, he opens his eyes, hoping that he's back in that field, but no he's back in the same room again. Moments pass as he lays there staring at the ceiling trying to find his bearings, and quickly finding his arms won't move, not even the uninjured one. Someone has strapped them to the sides of the bed. Lifting his head, he finds there's also a strap around his good leg and his other one is up on a cushion. Now sporting some sort of brace, there's even more bandaging than before obscuring his injured leg from view. Glancing at his left arm, he sees also that the needle has returned. A movement catches his eye. On the other side of the room is a chair, with a grim looking man in a black uniform sitting there. A guard. Of all things to have, he's got a guard. As they both watch each other uneasily, he decides there's no harm and tries asking yet again. 

"Who am I? Where am I?"

The guard gets excited, calling for someone out the door. Another man wearing a white coat and a woman with a similar black uniform as the guard's come running. They're leaning over him, talking at him with urgency and excitement, but as before it's all garbled and an lost to the sounds in his head. Garbled nonsense again, he thinks, the last of his energy dissipating as he lets his head drop back onto the pillow. Part of him is raging in frustration, while the rest is sinking into growing dispair. Hope is quickly fading, while he resigns himself to staring at the ceiling in hopes consciousness will fade once more.

The next days pass in a blur of pain and confusion, bound by long periods of unconsciousness that cruelly get shorter as time passes, and hedged in by blurry faces who keep asking endless questions or speaking garbled words he can't find the wherewithal to try understanding. Or at least he thinks they're questions; he really can't tell over the ringing in his ears. Sometimes, it's not the droning voices, it's a lady in white who brings little tablets of the same color as her uniform, which in turn provide him with a few more hours of oblivion and a break from the pain.

The ringing in his ears gradually stops, as does the infernal headache, even if his mind feels hollow and slow. Thoughts seemed to echo and he wondered if that was normal, if it had always been this way, but doesn't ask. Even if he could manage to string the necessary words together, he wasn't sure they'd understand him, and if they did, he wasn't sure he'd understand the answer yet. 

Understanding comes slowly. A word here and there he recognises — nothing like his own internal monologue — though the actual meaning escapes him in the moment, leaving him to puzzle over it when he wakes in the dark of night and everything is quiet. Words like "accident", "surgery", and "amnesia". What escapes him is the "parallel universe". The blonde woman had come back, her face mournful and eyes full of pity as she'd said that part and continued with an explanation that he didn't hear beyond the words "cannot return you home". 

He stops listening at that point, sullenly turning away and refusing to believe them. Just because he can't remember doesn't mean no one else does and that silly nonsense from fantasy novels is suddenly a reasonable explanation. But as the days pass, little things start to chip at the walls of his disbelief. One of the nurses brings in a television and turns it on, leaving it to drone on in the corner. It seems to be mostly some sort of filmed based on a news channel. Something about spaceships crashing in Belgium, metal men marching through the streets of Paris, pictures of a city in Germany that seem so familiar, but not. There's metal men there too in this film that says it all happened fifteen years ago, and claims it's now 2024. The newsreader sits at a desk with a view of the city showing behind. There's zeppelins in the sky, and then someone interviewing a walking, talking cactus lady and he has to laugh. What absurd films they make now, he thinks and briefly wonders if it's always been that way. 

On the next day the thread breaks as a glowing ethereal being enters his room, accompanied by the people in white. As he shies away in fear they rush over, pleading with him and telling the creature would be able to retrieve his memories. He doesn't know whether to believe them as he lays there, unable to flee because he's still strapped to the bed. Instead he stares up at the creature as it approaches. Almost as tall as the room's ceiling, it glows purple with translucent tentacles trailing in its wake. When it touches reaches one out to touch his forehead, he has a moment of utter clarity and silence in his mind before a voice gently says, "Hello." 

Before he can reply he's pitched into a darkness from which he struggles to wake after. When he does, everything is even more garbled and his head hurts, and he trusts these people even less. Even if they have since removed the restraints and the guard is now outside the room instead of staring him down, he doesn't trust them. He's alone here, and he knows it. Every day they came, and asked for something that wasn't happening. They still wanted him to remember, and every time he tried his memory fades into that place where the cold and dark are a scream that pierces his ears and make him flee back to a present with people he doesn't recognise and a small white hospital room whose walls pressed ever closer by the hour. They want him to remember what he can't and now most certainly doesn't want to. Why remember, if it only means knowing what has been lost? What is the importance of a name, if everyone who knows you is forever elsewhere while you live in a world of strangers?

Now the walls have tumbled entirely and he sits in the rubble realising that the world he once knew was long gone and lies far beyond reach. Hope fades further, and ambivalence starts to set in. It's too much effort to resist, not when the truth is staring him in the eye with zeppelins and aliens from cheaply made sci-fi films.

Every time he tries to remember, even on his own in the dark of the night when he cannot sleep, something stops him. It's like there's a giant barrier between him and whatever came before, a chasm between then and now that's too terrifying to contemplate crossing. And he's seen that gap, stared into it in his dreams before waking up with a scream. A scream that was all too familiar and seemed to echo across memory and experience simultaneously.

So he's said nothing, and asked no more questions of his own. If he replied, they'd be there longer, speaking words that made uneasy and hazy thoughts toss and turn in the maelstrom of his mind, like Leviathan stirring in the depths waiting to consume anyone who dared wake its wrath. He thinks while some people would give anything to remember, others would give even more for this forgetfulness. Because outside of the daily visitors, it is quite peaceful. During the day at least, when the light chases away the shadows of unwanted memory.

Never again has the unknown creature returned, and these people are slowly giving up their own expectations and hopes. Sometimes they ask half-heartedly before leaving. Then comes the nurse who nudges him out of bed to make a few laps around the room with a pair of crutches before giving him more bland food and another tab to wash down with water. Sometimes it's even juice, and after he'll get out of bed again after to go look out the window so he can peer out on a world that is not his own. There really are zeppelins in the sky, with people thronging on the pavements below, and it brings not even a stir of recognition. The television on the wall keeps up its mindless babble but he mostly ignores it now. It's something to keep out the silence that gives birth to deep thoughts and panicked recollections. 

They do come back, memories — or what he assumes might be such. Engulfed in flames as he stands before a screaming crowd, distorted faces writhing in an ecstasy of terror, a building exploding behind him as he walks away — all brief glimpses he gets in the dreams that come now. Ever since that creature touched him, it's all he sees when he closes his eyes. Scattered bits and pieces that make no sense and fit no pattern, but the thought of stringing them together terrifies him. Because then he would know what was now lost, and if he spoke, something in his tone might give voice to the lie.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been a month since Stonehenge. A month spent monitoring Rift activity, writing reports, and various other incidents. Two weeks before this there'd been some Slitheen sighted in Norwich, near the primary school. Unfortunately it had turned out to be more than just one, and left one of the primary schools now needing new staff and several dozen families mourning their losses. All in all, it'd been a long month, most of it spent away from home to the point Rose was pretty sure her remaining potted plants had died. She was half into the lift when Owen hailed her. Stifling a groan, she turned. "Yeah?" 

"Meeting in Pete's office, now," he said, before brusquely walking into the lift. He had a sheaf of papers in hand, a clear sign he was prepared for this unannounced meeting.

So much for going home on time for just once this week, she thought. And yesterday I was in Enfield, the three days before in Dorset... "What about?"

"Oh, you'll see," he said shortly before pressing the 'up' button. Feeling discomfited, she narrowed her eyes as the lift began its ascent to the top floor of the Shard. Upstairs, the largest conference room had its doors open, and Jake, Neil, and Kerry were all there, as well as Pete. Even Tosh was there, plus Malcolm from R&D. Everyone was sitting in various seats around the big table, looking just as appreprehensive as she felt. Though all of them had various papers or files sitting in front of them. 

Then there was Pete, sitting at the head of the conference table, looking as calm as ever. He nodded in greeting and motioned for both of them to sit. They both sat, Rose still wondering what was going on. She was about to ask when Pete leaned forward to look at Owen expectantly. "Perhaps a progress report on our mysterious guest would be good to start with, before we get down to the rest. If you could, Dr Harper."

"Ah yes, the wonderful surprise patient that got dropped off a month ago," Owen replied sourly. "Presented with severe hypothermia, delirium, a sprained knee with a few torn ligaments requiring a quick surgery, plus a minor head injury, dislocated shoulder, and various contusions. All simple, except he's got to be the worst patient I've ever had in my career, and that includes you know who."

"What do you mean?"

"Where should I begin... Ah I know, with the various escape attempts at the beginning like our clinic is some sort of prison or the fact he's slugged half my staff at least once in the process."

"You'd be a bit upset too mate if you woke up in some strange place with people poking at you," Rose retorted. "Probably thinks he's been kidnapped."

"Well it's not like we've not tried explaining what's happened daily!" Owen said in exasperation. "Any time someone tries talking to him he either looks away or stares at you like you've got three head."

"Well he was speaking a mix of English when we found him. Maybe he forgot he knows English," Kerry suggested.

"I don't think that's how amnesia works," Tosh said. 

 

"It's not," Owen confirmed. "And he was speaking off and on for the first week, not that it helped with actually communicating with him. We brought in someone to try translating, since he was mostly speaking German, but that didn't do much good. Just stared at them and kept asking the same questions, but no paid no mind to the answers we could give him, much less be bothered to answer any of ours. Can't tell if it's the head injury or the combination of both Void and Rift energy playing merry hell. We can't exactly put him through a med scanner, cos he's difficult enough to handle as it is, and the void particles are playing merry hell on the instruments."

"I tried with a handheld one, and it immediately shorted out. We could try the TAR-" Tosh began.

"It indeed does look like Void Sickness," Malcolm interjected hurriedly, giving her a pointed look. "We did see similar behavior in the some of the participants for the trials for the Dimension Canon. Less so in the volunteers for the ones for the hoppers. What were his radiation levels?"

Owen nonchalantly tossed him the papers he'd brought and sat back while Malcolm quickly scanned through. Squinting and adjusting his glasses, he mumbled to himself for a moment. Owen gave him a moment before saying, "As you can see, it's nearly glow in the dark bad. Worse than anyone who used the Dimension Canon, and as bad as the ones who've run afoul of the Rift."

"Yes, indeed. He's done what no one else has done, whoever he is. Traversed both Void and Rift, and come through alive, despite an apparent lack of any protective shielding or even oxygen. From these sorts of levels, he'd had to have gotten trapped in there for some time; probably panicked and got turned around. Which wouldn't be unexpected if it was someone who'd not been properly trained or prepared. But the odds of survival would definitely not be in his favour."

"Could have came through by accident," Neil said.

"Possibly," Malcolm confirmed. "Even if he was a hostile agent from one of the other parallel worlds, at this point he's largely useless to them."

"If he's a sleeper agent," Jake said thoughtfully, "all it would take is some sort of signal and next you know we've got someone trying to tear down the walls between universes again."

Owen shook his head. "That'd be a bit easier to deal with."

"Why?" Tosh asked. 

Waving a hand and affecting a bored look, he explained, "The amnesia I mentioned before. Seems to remember nothing from before the incident at all, and our attempt with the Aradnae—"

At this, Rose interrupted incredulously. "You brought in an Aradnae? Do you know how many laws you've just broken?!"

Owen just gave her a look, rolling his eyes. At least Tosh and Malcolm had the decency to look ashamed. Before she could take anyone to task on that Pete spoke up: "It was by my orders."

"We can't just go about using aliens to invade other people's minds. Unknown interloper or not, he's still got rights," she protested hotly, glaring. She was disappointed to find that no one else looked outraged. Far from it, in fact.

"And what else are we supposed to do? We're getting reports of rift activity across the globe. Just this morning a luxury yacht turn up in the middle of the Atacama dessert, along with the bodies of three unknown victims. Two days before it was a trio of aeroplanes crashing in the waters off Florida with unknown markings, plus a half dozen badly damaged refrigerators turning up in the middle of the Notre Dame. All appearing out of thin air, all of them with the same combination of both rift and void energy and the only one who could possibly give us an answer is sitting on the medical unit. He won't answer a single question, won't even tell us his name, and right now we don't even have a bloody clue what's behind this, or whom," Pete snapped. Seeing Rose's continued glaring, he sighed and said more gently, "This is a bit bigger than a momentary breach of someone's rights, as terrible as that sounds."

"Also, it's not like it worked," Owen added sourly. "The Aradnaes main goal was to feed off and hopefully scrub the void energy completely. Or at least we think it did failed, since he's now refusing to communicate at all and mostly just contemplates the ceiling. Before that he was kept drugged into complacency for the first two weeks before the until Doctor Jones came up with the clever idea of popping a telly in the room, to see if that jogged anything loose. Never seen anyone so entertained by Sky News," he said with a snort. "Only thing that's changed since is he doesn't seem to sleep much and is getting more recalcitrant by the day."

Pete momentarily looked alarmed before frowning and asking, "What sort of condition is he in now? Physically, I mean." 

"The leg is healing well, and he's not in too much apparent discomfort."

"How much of a threat to the civilian population is he?" 

"Hard to say really, but probably no worse than the average Joe Bloggs on the street. He's stubbornly compliant with anything other than actually answering questions, and calmed down enough to be let out of restraints a few days after we changed the bandages on his leg after the second surgery. Just watched us the entire time with nary a peep, and hasn't tried escaping since."

"Second surgery?" Rose repeated. "How many surgeries would one person need for what you said was a minor ligament tear."

"Oh it was a minor tear -- right until the daft twat decided to literally pull a runner. His second escape attempt, I might mention. And also the main why of the restraints. Ripped the dripline out, tried walking on it until the stitches all tore out, and then literally dragged himself out the door. My staff caught him and well, that's why we've kept him drugged."

"So a bit mental, then?" Pete said, amused. "Not like we're not used to that sort of thing around here. Did the Aradnae say if they saw anything in his mind? Any hints to who he is or where he came from?"

"Absolutely none, unless anyone else has found anything."

Pete sighed and looked at hopefully Tosh. She sighed and shook her head. "Unfortunately, nothing turned up on my end. Ran fingerprints and an eFit through every police and government bureau on earth and even sent copies to the Shadow Proclamation. Even sent someone do check the surviving hard copy files from Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. Had no identification on him, though I suspect the contents of his pockets, if there were any, got lost somewhere between here and wherever he bloody well came from. None of his clothes were from brands or designers that exist here, so that's a dead end, as well. Whoever he is, either he's from one of the countries whose records were lost during the Cybermen, or he's not got an analogue here."

Pete nodded, "Makes it easier then."

Rose looked at her step father with suspicion. From the analytical, impersonal way everyone else was speaking, all of this rubbed her the wrong way. "Makes what easier?" she asked.

Pete smiled grimly, hesitating before answering, "Figuring out what to do with him."

Rose didn't like the sound of that. "Yeah, and?" she prompted, chin raised slightly. 

Pete sighed. "Nothing nefarious, love. We'll put him through the Assimilation Program on Jura. If he passes, a fake identity can be established and whatever else is necessary to keep him out of trouble. I'm sure if we can get Sontarans and the like to blend in, we can manage with one human bloke who's got amnesia. That is, provided he's not actually a sleeper agent for the Daleks or the like, in which case, he'll permanently be there."

"I don't think Jura is necessary... It's not like he needs a cloaking device so he doesn't terrify the grannies at the shops," Rose protested, looking around. No one else seemed to have any objections to Pete's plan. "If anything, if his world hasn't had alien contact yet, what sort of shock would dropping him smack bang in the middle of a holding center full of them bring?"

"He'll have to adjust quickly then, won't he?" Pete replied firmly, signalling the end of the discussion by rising. "It's called an Assimilation Program for a reason."

 

After days of occupying the same four walls with only a television, nurses and the occasional visits from the 'Inquisitors', as he'd come to think of them, he was bored and restless. So far he'd counted every perforation in the ceiling tiles in a bid to stave off the urge to yell in frustration. The last embers of Hope and Determination refused to die, kept smoldering by the daily visits for the last week or so by the nurse who'd get him up on crutches and watchfully escort him up and down the outside corridor. He'd not been allowed to go far, just back and forth past the small nurse's station, which lay several doors down from where his last escape attempt failed. The illuminated Exit sign tantilized and teased him every time, but the guard stationed by it as well as the disapproving frown of his attending nurse held him back every time.  
Now his leg has healed enough that he can bear weight on it with the brace, and his shoulder, while stiff and aching at the end of the day is moveable without any undue pain. However, the mounting frustration and need to get away from here, to just find someone who knows something, anything about who he is, has become nigh on unbearable. He has carefully paid attention to the sounds and patterns of the ward. He knows when the shifts change, when the nurse is going to come with the next set of pills and his dinner — everything. So when the head doctor walked by his doorway speaking of a meeting while being accompanied by the erstwhile door guard, he paid attention. Keen ears caught the sound of a nurse saying she was taking her break, with the other one saying she'd join her, he knew he had his chance. 

This time it was easy getting from the bed to the door, even if he was still cautious about putting his full weight on the leg. Crutches in hand to keep from making a sound, he peered around the frame, heart pounding in anticipation and excitement. Seeing the way truly was clear, he half sprinted down the corridor to the large swinging doors heralded by that enticing red lettered sign and burst through them with no hesitation. Only to find himself in another corridor, which at least was graced with another exit sign that has an arrow pointing left. Glancing back to see if anyone was coming, he finally set his crutches down and started properly making his bid for freedom. 

It seemed like the place had endless corridors lined with doors, much like the hospital ward he'd come from, but showing no signs of what the rest of the place was actually used for. All the doors were locked and there didn't seem to be anyone else about. Encountering no one, he went onward, rounding a corner and spotting a lift. As he approached, he noticed it was in use, the display beside it ticking down numbers steadily. Someone was coming, he realized, glancing around and trying the nearest door was locked. He spotted another sign with a diagram of a person on a flight of stairs and the words Emergency Stairwell. 

Fortunately that door worked, as he pushed through and indeed found stairs. Those to the left went up and to the right went down, leaving him with the obvious option. Using the crutches proved to be the more dangerous as he found when he almost took a headlong tumble. Determined to get out of this strange, largely abandoned building, he once again held both crutches in one hand, set the other hand on the railing and hobbled downward. He'd made it several floors down, all the while cursing the lack of indicators to show what floor he was actually even on, much less where he'd begun, when he once again heard voices. Voices and the sound of a door opening and closing and footsteps on the stairs several flights above echoed down to him. If someone saw him, they'd know and he'd be returned to that wretched, boring room with a guard in a chair staring at him again. Probably the restraints again too, he thought. No, that was definitely not going to happen, not if he had anything to say about it. 

Forcing himself to pick up speed and getting more frustrated with how awkward the stiffness of the brace made running down stairs, he made it to the next landing, which had a door. Not even looking to see where the door led, he pulled it open and ran through... into another corridor. 

This one had both an exit and an sign saying 'R&D', whatever that meant. He didn't stop to wonder, just followed the red arrow. This corridor was much shorter than the previous ones, ending at a set of doors with two more signs saying 'Labs' and the more hopeful one, 'Exit'. 

Through the doors was a large, dimly lit room. There was a scattering of tables and other equipment, plus another corridor branching off to the right, but straight ahead was another set of doors and an exit sign. Stepping through, he found it wasn't the outdoors as he'd hoped. Instead it was a dark cavernous space, dark enough he couldn't see his own hand before his face. Confused, he turned awkwardly in a panic before spotting another sign glowing in the distance. His leg was beginning to ache again, and since he'd not seen anyone since the stairwell, he dared risk using his crutches. His shuffling footsteps and the rubber ends of the crutches barely made a sound as he moved toward the distant glowing red beacon. He'd gone perhaps two meters when lights suddenly came on, making him freeze in shock at what they revealed.

The room was far larger than he'd imagined, nearly cavernous, but that barely caught his notice. It was what was in the room that gave him pause. To the left of the doors he'd come through shortly before sat a strange looking airplane, looking battered and burnt about the edges. He'd never seen the like before. It looked like it could be some sort of military jet. As far as he could see around the room, there were more of them, of different styles, all with various states of damage. Amongst them was the wreckage of a few large metal disc shaped craft. 

"Mein Gott," he whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. He began to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly feeling very tired and worn, he hunched over while he tried to gather his wildly scrambling thoughts. Panic and fear was beginning to set in like it never had before, as the ringing in his ears crept back in. He felt almost faint as it got loud enough to drown out even the sounds of his breathing, closing his eyes and trying to think through everything he knew and could remember. This explained the guards and the constant watchfulness of his keepers, as well as the constant questioning. Had he accidentally ended up on a military base, gotten caught up in some sort of secret experiments, leading to his current state? He didn't know and didn't intend to find out. The exit sign was about 30 meters away and that's where he was going. 

He opened his eyes and pushed his hair out of his eyes with an unsteady hand. Forcing himself to ignore everything other than the thought of escape, he began moving. Everything felt like it was in slow motion: swing crusches ahead and hop, swing crutches ahead and hop. The ringing was beginning to diminish and his breath was coming easier when the sound he'd been dreading reached his ears: a voice yelling.

"Halt right there!" 

Without looking behind him he ran. The will to survive set in and he pushed himself as hard as he could. Nevertheless, he could hear them catching up. There was definitely more than one, and the yelling was growing louder. He glanced back to see what seemed like dozens of them, clad in the same black uniforms as his guard had worn, weapons drawn. He ducked behind some of the wreckage to get away, dodging and weaving between the different craft, hoping against hope he could reach that exit. Not that would do any good, since they were gaining on him with every step, but something urged him on. 

The ringing, roaring howls in his mind were back and growing stronger, becoming almost an itch. Almost unbearable in itself, he wasn't sure if he was trying to flee the rushing in his ears or the ones with weapons pursuing him, but he didn't care. He didn't care there was no way a man in a knee brace could outrun that many physically fit people, but apparently he was stubborn as well as desperate. After all, the sound was only getting louder with every growingly painful step. Determined at least, and not giving up, either, even if they were closing in on him, and he could swear he felt his bones rattling. Another corner came and he swerved around it, everything ahead clear other than a large blue shed.

 

 

Rose was still upset when she left the meeting, striding down the hallway to the lifts. She Jake caught up with her and stepped inside just before the doors heaved closed. He didn't attempt to say anything until they'd reached the eighth floor where the medical unit was, following her out before he finally spoke. "It's not as simple as you think, Rose."

"Yeah, and somehow I'm to believe shipping someone who's done absolutely nowt off to Jura is the best option?" 

"It'd just be for observation, until either he starts talking or we figure out what to do with him. He can't live down there forever," he said, pointing down the corridor. 

Beyond the small nurses station and the examination room that Rose remembered from the times she'd gotten injured on missions, there were the short row of patient rooms. A half dozen or so, all unmarked with the doors open. 

"Which one is he in?" she asked in reply, ignoring Jake's attempt to reason with her.

"Rose, come on. Don't be so bloody stubborn. He starts contemplating the ceiling the moment anyone goes in there, so it's pointless."

"Which one," she repeated firmly.

"The last one down on the left," he said, sighing. He shook his head. "He really isn't going to talk to you, you know that right? And I just... You can't save everyone, Rose. " 

"Owen should've known better, " she retorted.

"Aye, but I can't say as I blame him, either. It's just this one, he went through the Rift and the Void, both. You weren't there back then, back during the trials with the Hoppers. Twelve went out, only one came back alive. You don't even want to know what sort of state he was in. Hell, look at the ones we found at Stonehenge. There's no bloody way he came through without some sort of shielding."

"You know we scoured that entire area — the entire five square miles, with three teams — and found fuck all. Didn't even find where exactly he came through, either."

"And that's what makes me suspicious. What if Malcolm is right? What if someone sent him through on purpose. You and the Doctor talked about all what happened on the other side, the Daleks and that lot, plus there was that other Torchwood — could be someone else trying the same. And what with all the other shit going on..."

"He's not from that version of earth, though. The energy signature's nowt like what Mum and I've got, and even the Dimension Canon doesn't recognize it."

"So. You know what the Doctor said. There's probably thousands of parallel Earths out there. Hell, there's nothing sayin' he's even from Earth, or even really human. Could all be some high tech disguise, and him some sort of sleeper agent or something."

Glancing toward the doorway, Rose had to asmit the possibility was there. But still... "He didn't exactly look like some sort of secret agent, mate. And he's definitely human. Owen took enough blood samples and Malcolm ran enough tests to prove that."

"Wouldn't be the first time. We had those gas creatures that were possessing people in Cardiff." 

"But that'd show up on the Scanners," she replied shaking her head.

"Except the Scanners all freak out over the radiation levels." He pulled back under the weight of Rose's glare, but added diffidently, "Just sayin', y'know. He could be anything or anyone."

"Yeah, and he doesn't even know what day of the week it is, so I'm not worried about it," Rose scoffed as shve strode away quietly. 

The room was silent other than the soft murmur of the telly in the corner — and the bed was very much empty. As she turned to ask Jake what was going on, the building alarms suddenly rang out. 

"SECURE LEVEL HAS BEEN BREACHED. UNKNOWN INTRUDER IN THE LABS, UNKNOWN INTRUDER IN THE LABS," rang the klaxons. "ALL PERSONNEL ORDERED TO ATTEND, SECURITY BREACH IN THE HANGAR." 

 

She was one of the last ones through the doors that led from the labs to the hangar. For a moment she had to admire the bottle of a man on crutches in a hospital gown and slippers trying to outrun a Torchwood team. Not that he was managing so well. They already had the exits blocked and there was no where else for him to go. He was just wearing himself out at that point. Or so they thought, right up until he suddenly turned and made a mad dash like he'd had a homing beacon for TARDIS. 

Not that that'd do him any good, she thought as she pushed ahead to stop him. The ship's doors had locked themselves two years ago after she'd crash-landed and hadn't opened since, despite numerous attempts by Malcolm and her own pleadings with the telepathic ship. Even after they'd brought her back here and repaired what damage they could to the outside, nothing. 

Rose hadn't laid eyes on that familiar blue shape in over eighteen months, and now as she rounds the last corner, she sees it once again just as she witnesses the impossible. 

The door opens freely under the fugitive's hand and then slams shut behind him. She's mere feet away, fingers almost able to grasp the door handle when the beacon light flickers to life and the engines begin their grinding roar. Sixteen Torchwood agents stare in awe as the ship dematerialized before them.

"For someone who's not a secret agent, he's done a fucking good job of stealing the TARDIS, then," Jake barks before turning away, yelling into his Coms unit.


	4. Chapter 4

As expected, Richard is the first to notice that Till is late. Determined not to start anything and resolving to be patient, despite the fact they had all discussed this not even yesterday, with Till promising not to be late or hungover, and here it is now, five minutes past. So he fumes silently, gradually becoming more annoyed at the sound of Flake rattling his newspaper as he reads, waiting for someone else to bring it up as the minutes pass. Paul is busy tormenting Schneider with his endless chatter while Ollie is quietly tuning his bass. He's the one who finally states the obvious. 

"Shouldn't Till be here by now?"

Flake looks up from his newspaper to glance at the clock. "Indeed. Wine, women, and not so much song are to blame, perhaps." 

Richard is now scowling at his nails, trying to pretend this is not getting on his nerves, but isn't it just. More so as the hours pass, and even Paul is getting annoyed, Schneider has taken to glaring at the door while Flake is giving the clock a death stare, and Olli is looking vaguely concerned. Everyone else has tried calling Till multiple times, each call eventually going to voicemail, while Richard is still pretending to be oblivious. Inside he's screaming, mentally planning out the hiding he's going to give that man, because really, Lindemann, after all this time, you're going to pull this shit now? 

By the time late afternoon rolls around, everyone except for him and Olli are busy arguing, sparked by when Nele had called them asking if she could speak to her Vatti and they can't decide whether to call the police or not. Paul thinks Till's just avoiding them, Flake is worried he's gotten back into drugs and is passed out in a drug den somewhere, and Schneider has offered the possibility that he's holed up with some woman he's met at a club and completely forgotten they exist. They've called Danny and he's not seen hide nor hair of Till, not since the previous evening. A quick check of the internet and various fan sites shows no new photos that could possibly be clues to where the man's disappeared to. Olli is the one who suggested reporting him missing, no matter what he's gotten himself into — or whom.

That's what Olli's doing now, talking to the police, while he — Richard —is beginning to wonder if Till has finally done it: Changed his name and moved to some random obscure location in the back of beyond. After all, after twenty odd years of being chased about by both the press and rabid fans, wouldn't anyone? Especially when the object of all the constant attention is someone who'd probably still be an unknown basket weaver if the universe was a bit kinder and he'd not fallen in with the wrong crowd. Namely the sort who were bent on becoming famous musicians by any means possible, including flamethrowers and naked women on stage. Alas, one cannot rewrite the past, this is the here and now, and Mr. Antisocial is still missing. 

Of course the police say sorry, call back in 24 hours unless you hear from him or get any other information. He's a grown man in good health and of reasonably sound mind, after all. Olli relays this to a room that goes silent. Flake is the first to break the silence by declaring that he's going for a walk and Richard decides it's time for a smoke, while Paul and Schneider can continue to argue with Olli if they want. It's the lack of nicotine that's making his hands shake and not, lets say, the urge to wrap his fingers around a certain person's throat and squeeze. 

As he's sucking down the first puffs of his first cigarette in six hours, he finally gives in to the storm of rage brewing. He kicks the wall as he finishes the first, lighting the second off its spent end as he works himself up to adding the occasional yell. Not too loudly — he doesn't want to attract attention and add any fuel to the fire. He doesn't know why he's trying to pretend to be so calm, just that after such an effortless start to this album and so much hope that it wouldn't turn into something akin to getting teeth pulled, he's raging. He really is, but he's been determined not to be the diva this time around, not to micromanage everything down to the last half note and barely legible album liner credit... and this isn't just going to do at all. All they'd wanted was to release one last album, to go out with a bang — so to speak. Was that too much to ask? But no, he'd always known something would come along to throw a wrench into the works, and this is just about the biggest one possible. So he lights his third cigarette in less than five minutes and breathes deep, calming breaths. 

It doesn't help and he isn't any more calm than he was an hour ago, before Ollie tried calling the police. Or even four hours ago, when they were all still trying to call Till's mobile phone, only for it to go to that same recorded message every single time. Or even five hours ago, when they'd still expected him to come rushing through the door with an apology and mumbled excuses.

That was then and this now, now when it's nearly dark. The shadows are creeping into the alley by the back door of the studio and the sounds of the surrounding city are oddly muted and distant as he decides to finally try calling Till himself. He's the only one who hasn't yet, everyone else doing so and leaving messages and texts of varying tones that ranged from cajoling to concerned to vaguely threatening. 

He fumbles out his mobile and dials that oh so familiar number, rehearsing what he's going to say. It's ringing already, and "listen up, you bastard" is on the tip of his tongue when he notices something: there's a strange echo. Holding his breath as he disconnects and dials again, this time holding his phone down and away from himself as he walks down the alley towards the next. His heart is beating so loudly in his ears he can barely hear when his eyes catch the hint of a glow in the deepest part of the shadows, just as the line goes to voicemail. He can't breathe at all during the brief moments between when he disconnects and redials, the glow and the steady ringing chime confirming his worst nightmare. 

He's the one who calls the police this time. 

 

 

"How the hell did this even happen?" Was the first thing Pete said as he stormed into the hangar. Rose and Jake looked at each other, realising that neither of them have any more answers than Pete does. In fact, out of all the Torchwood agents that are there, no one's got a clue how this was possible. 

"He just sort of ran into the TARDIS...." Rose offered hesitantly.

Pete gave her a sharp look before turning to glare at Owen who had just come through the doorway. "I thought you said he was human?" 

"DNA tested out as 100% human stock, no signs of alien genetics or engineering at all," Owen said defensively, raising his hands to ward off Pete's wrath. "Which obviously isn't necessary if he can just walk right up to a spaceship and steal the bloody thing," he said pointedly, glaring in turn at Jake. 

"Oi, I got called to some useless meeting over our mystery guest was some sort of threat that needed guarding or not. I can't watch him and give reports at the same time, mate. And it looks like we all found out the answer to that one," Jake rejoined. He paused and added grudgingly, "Buggered up leg and all, he can definitely run."

"How the hell did he bypass security in the first place?" Pete asked, looking at all of them accusatively, arms crossed over his chest. He stood blocking the doorway, in case anyone got the sudden idea to go find something else to do with their time.

Jake fidgeted and glanced at Rose, who finally spoke up, "He didn't. First alarm was raised on the fourth floor, by someone who spotted him but didn't make chase due to the fact his clothes have tags from Sickbay." 

One of the agents fidgeted with their weapon, before raising his hand meekly. "Was me, sir. Thought it might have been Russell, since he was up for a broken leg he got dealing with those Weevils in Brixton yesterday. Didn't realize it wasn't until the bloke took off running." 

Pete walked over to peer at his badge, before asking in a deceptively calm voice, "And you didn't think to follow him, Agent Jones?"

"Lost him on the stairwell leading to the labs. Thought he might have gone right, since the exit's right there," Jones said apologetically.

"And the labs are more valuable to any terrorist or corporate vandal," Pete nearly yelled. "Do you have any idea what sort of things he could have gotten his hands on? There's weapons down here that could level everything from here to Jupiter, if you lot've not noticed."

"It's not like any of those ships were working, or at least they weren't supposed to be!" Jones protested, looking around in a panic, hoping someone would jump in and give him some support. "And everyone knows the real stuff is elsewhere and the TARDIS is dead, just like —" 

Rose reached over and grabbed him by his collar. "Don't you even dare," she hissed, before shoving him away. She turned back to face Pete. "If anything, it's my fault. I was less than a foot away when he suddenly turned and went for the TARDIS like a magnet. I should have grabbed him, but I didn't."

Jake raised a hand. "Just as much to blame here, sir. I had a clear shot, multiple times, but didn't take it. Can we rethink that nonviolence policy now, and adjust the threat assessment?"

Pete swore and paced back and forth for a few minutes, thinking hard. He finally paused, and sighed. "It's not up to me anymore," he said wearily. "We're going to have to make a full report on this incident, both to the Ministry of Defense, and the Shadow Proclamation. They'll probably be contacting the Time Lords, because right now we've got an unbonded TARDIS on the loose, with an unknown person in control of it." He turns away to leave, shaking his head in disgust. When he was almost to the doorway, he stopped and turned. "And all of you are on administrative leave, without pay, for the foreseeable future. There'll be a thorough investigation to see what disciplinary measures will be taken." 

Rose went to follow, only for Pete to turn back and say, "Go home, Rose. I mean it. With the Time Lords involved, they'll probably have a lot of questions and have plenty of suspicion to toss about for all of us. Last thing I want is the finger of blame to fall on you, what with you being the last one to have been inside that ship before..." Pete paused and waved a hand. "You know what I mean. Just go home, stay out of sight, and for God's sake, don't come near Canary Wharf for the next month at least."

He walked away and left Rose standing there awkwardly. Everyone else was hanging back and talking quietly amongst themselves when she turned back and walked back through the underground hangar. She avoided looking at the all too empty spot where the TARDIS had sat for the last year as she crossed to the exit door on the far wall, which conveniently led to the parking garage. It would have been faster to have gone the other way, back towards the stairwell and up the elevator to the ground floor and around, but this was better. Word would spread quickly and people would talk. Worse, they'd want to talk to her and ask questions. Questions like, 'what are you feeling, now that someone's stolen...' and other things she didn't want to talk about. 

It was bad enough she was already thinking. Bad enough that she cringed just the same whenever someone purposely avoided mentioning the Doctor. Even she tried not to think, not to remember, but with everyone dancing around it and mincing words, it was worse since he was the proverbial elephant in the room. 

He'd be thrilled if he knew. If only. 

She was grateful she'd brought her car, because that meant even fewer people to deal with on her ride home. Once she got to her flat, she was going to sleep until she couldn't, and then get to figuring out how the hell some random bloke with amnesia made off with a ship that could only be flown by Time Lords. After that, she was going to have a bath, do her hair, and get drunk enough to forget all this had even happened. 

 

 

The doors had barely shut behind him when he fell backwards, throwing his full weight against them. He hoped he weighed enough to at least slow them down and that they valued the paint on their little building enough not to blast it full of holes. He had no doubts about his own dubious value, or even why he'd run in here, just that that damned screeching in his ears seemed to be telling him to. It's dark and he's out of breath, legs starting to wobble as he carefully slides down. The ringing in his ears has changed, resembling something like an elephant being strangled that grows louder and louder. It seems to pulse through the entirety of his being, wracking him to his core and threatening to shake him apart. 

"Hör auf," he mumbles, eyes squeezing shut as he raised his hands to cover his ears. It doesn't help, but the sound doesn't get any louder. The wheezing groans still mask the sound of his panting breaths, as he sits there waiting for his inevitable capture.

However the shaking gets worse, which is when he realizes he wasn't imagining it. 

It'll be them outside, trying to break in, he thinks. 

Pushing back harder and bracing himself, he spends a few tense moments before noticing that the shaking isn't coming from someone trying to ram their way through a pair of wooden doors. Instead it seems like the entire building is shaking. 

"What the fuck?" he whispers, trying to imagine what was going on outside. 

Could they be carrying the entire shed somewhere? But why? That made no sense — but then, nothing has made any sense, not in a long time. Not since he can remember, at least. 

Still feeling slightly faint, he uses one of his crutches to lever himself up to a crouching position. He can't hear anything outside, no voices or anything. Then again, he can't hear anything over that awful racket in his head. It's frustrating to say the least, but he decides to take a risk and look out through the little panes of glass he can see over his head. Leaning against the door as a precaution, he slowly stands and looks out, and then isn't sure if he can believe his eyes. 

A nervous laugh escapes his lips. "I'd love to know how they did this," he murmured in quiet amused admiration. "Or why. It looks like the earth is down there floating. Maybe they expect I'll come out screaming at the madness of it all." 

The building shook again and the view shifted with it, showing little pinpricks of light against the black background. A distant planet rotated into view and he hummed in appreciation. They were certainly putting a lot of effort in, thought he wasn't sure what they expected him to do. 

"I'm not freaking out yet," he yelled to his tormentors, suppressing a laugh. This reminded him of a film, but he wasn't sure what the name of it was or if he was just imagining it. It still seemed familiar, this view of space. So much work, he thought. Just to impress or terrify someone. He wondered what the point really was, especially when they'd had guns. Shooting someone was vastly easier than putting on such a grand performance, trying to make them think they were out amongst the stars.

Shaking his head, he glanced over his shoulder to see what the rest of his little hiding spot looked like....

The view out the window suddenly seemed more logical and real. At least that wasn't openly defying the laws of physics. 

"I am freaking out now."


	5. Chapter 5

A high vaulted ceiling meets his eyes, framed by buttresses of iron and what looked like stone or coral. Expansive walls covered in an arrangement of octagonal lights stretch to impossible distances, arching up to meet in a tangle of thick wiring. In the center and directly below, is a strange looking console with a jumbled assortment of odds and ends that looked like they'd been salvaged from a junkyard. Some sort of piston, lit in green, pumped lethargically as he stared. In the distance, he could see what looked like a worn out bench-seat from someone's abandoned van. The whole room was girded by a railing — the same one he currently clung to while debating running for the door. Except he didn't have it in him. Not at all, what with the dull ache in his leg growing ever stronger by the moment as the effects of his last dose of medication wore off. 

All this was impossible, his mind was screaming, even as his eyes proved the lie. Trembling slightly, he leaned against the railing. "Hallo?" he called cautiously, hoping against hope someone would answer. Someone who could explain all this bullshit, any of this bullshit. He'd even be happy with a half decent lie at this point. Even better if they had anything for his leg, or even a spare pullover. It was rather cool in this impossible shed he's found himself in, and the socks and thin clothes he'd been given back there provided little warmth. Then again, those had been made for protecting the dignity of bed-bound invalids, not meant for outside wear or galavanting about in strange little buildings that were frankly breaking all the laws of physics he could remember. Or at least he thought it did, because nothing about this seemed in the least bit familiar. 

He might not remember much, but he finds things come back when he sees or thinks about them. Nothing overly important, just basic things like how to be a functional human. Weird little sheds like this are definitely not included in that category, and certainly not this impossible shed that somehow has a strange hybrid of rubbish heap and cathedral inside. 

Of course, no one answers. 

"Well fuck you too," he mutters, turning back to try the doors. The view out there makes marginally more sense than in here, he thinks as he pushes at them. When that doesn't work, he tries pulling instead. There's absolutely no give to the wood under his hands, no flexing or shuddering with the force he's exerting on the handle. 

None. 

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of the utter madness he's trapped with and spurs him on. But pounding with his fists does little good, and neither does his attempt to break the glass. Kicking is right out, because his right leg is barely bearing his weight as it is. "Let me out!" he yells, anger starting to rise. Ever since he woke up by that field, he's been in pain and for the most part cold; constantly beset by strangers who won't answer a single question and subjected to absurd nonsense. 

Like this. 

Giant rooms in little boxes, indeed. 

And he's having none of it. 

"This is bullshit, you can't keep me here. I'll figure out how to get out and when I do–" 

But as before, there's no answer and he's nearly roared himself hoarse, raging against the nameless entity he's decided is responsible for this mess. Also, his leg feels like it's on fire, while the ache has settled all the way into the bone and is spreading up and down his entire leg. Exhaustion seeps in, making his shoulders slump, the left one beginning to throb in time with his knee. 

Fuck.

He turns back once more, eyeing his apparent prison with resignation. Gritting his teeth, he decides the seat across the way would be more comfortable than continuing to stand. Sitting would give him a chance to rest, to assess his situation. Maybe someone would show up, anyone. Even the ones with guns would be welcome at this point; they could put him out of his misery because all of this was making his head hurt. 

As he limps by tiredly, he's too distracted to notice the piston begins moving faster at his approach and the dim lights flicker to greater brightness. A screen on the console flickers to life briefly, unobserved by the man as he pauses to catch his breath. As he continues and passes by to settle on the seat with a grateful sigh, the lights dim again and the engines settle into a slower idle, waiting. 

 

 

 

Pete adjusted his tie one more time. He'd not dealt with the Shadow Proclamation since two years before, when he'd gotten them to intervene on Rose's behalf. The Time Lords, after everything they'd done, had claimed the TARDIS as their own property. Even going so far as threatening to level the entire planet if it wasn't returned to Gallifrey immediately. At first he'd been all for it, wanting more than anything to have it done and gone, one less thing to remind them all, especially Rose, of what had happened. But Jackie had been incensed, raging at his audacity to take the one tangible thing their daughter had left of the Doctor. On top of that, the ship's doors wouldn't open for anyone. Proved easily during the negotiated truce with the Shadow Architect herself coming in to monitor the meeting between the Time Lord President and the head of Torchwood. An agreement had been made that day; the ship and its technology were not to be salvaged or used by anyone. Any violations and the Shadow Proclamation would take both the time ship and those responsible into custody immediately. 

Pete still isn't sure how he's going to explain this. After all, mysterious strangers with amnesia don't go stealing spaceships on the regular. Or rather, they didn't do before. But he's got the evidence prepared and ready to hand over. From here on out, it was out of his hands and no longer his, or Earth's responsibility. 

He was nervously clearing his throat just as four Judoon suddenly appeared in his office. Weapons up, the bulky rhino-like humanoids brusquely motioned him to stay seated as they scanned his office wordlessly. Pete was both surprised and grateful they'd not used their reverse rainfall method this time. Last time it had played merry hell with the weather for weeks, with thunderstorms raging for three days straight immediately after. 

Finally, after several tense moments where Pete pretended to be calm and collected, the leader seemed satisfied there was no security threats and barked into his communicator device. In a flash of blue light, the Shadow Architect appeared. Her face was as pale and impassive as Pete remembered.

She also doesn't bother with formalities or small talk, either, just like before. "The ship, I presume?"

He nods grimly.

"Violation of both the treaty and Article 374," she says grimly. "Who?"

"I wish I could tell you."

She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing. "Invisible?"

Pete had had all the reports prepared the evening before. Everything from DNA profile and samples, to every single photo that had been taken of the man during the time he had been here, including numerous stills taken from the CCTV. He slides them across his desk. "Far from. Unknown human male of indeterminate age and origin came through the rift west of here, after travassing the void by unknown means. Found by a team patrolling the area because of other rift activity, with objects coming through, including two other unknown persons. Those were deceased, and this one, the one who took the TARDIS, was still recovering from the injuries he received either before or during his arrival here."

The Shadow Architect picked up the paper, a slight look of distaste at such primitive technology crossing her face momentarily. 

Pete waved a hand at the cardboard box that sat to the right of his desk, amused at what she'd think about something as simple as a box, much less the contents. "There's his personal effects. Everything he had in his possession when he was brought in by our agents."

The Shadow Architect glanced in, reaching out with distaste to touch the folded leather jacket on top. Pushing it aside she noted a battered pair of boots, a torn pair of jeans, and looked no further. She waved a hand and Judoon stepped forward to take the box, beaming out almost immediately. 

She nodded and said curtly, "That is all that is required."

By some strange impulse, Pete interrupts before she can beam out, "You'll keep us informed?"

For a moment she merely eyes him before giving a slight nod. "Report immediately if he returns. You have permission to execute upon sight."

 

 

 

He's still cold, sore, and now he's hungry. Also his throat is dry and he has no idea how long he's been here. Other than that, nothing has changed. His leg is throbbing steadily and he really misses those little white pills. He doesn't know what he wants more, a pill or water. Preferably both, but from the looks of it, he's not getting either. At some point the rhythmic movement of the glowing green piston in its glass casing had lulled him into a doze, that was later broken only by a slight juddering. That happened regularly, the whole room shuddering and shaking like some great hidden motor was struggling and on the verge of failing. He couldn't even begin to imagine what would happen if it did. He just hoped the end would be quick. 

The sound of garbled voices jumps him. As he straightens on the bench, it's gone, like it had never been. Thinking he had imagined it, that maybe his sanity has finally called it quits, he slumps again with a groan, only to hear them again.

"Flight 493... Come in.... Mayday, this is..." his ears catch before it fades to static. 

Throwing himself to his feet and disregarding the sudden stabbing pain in his leg, he's at the console, looking for the source. A small screen with a small black knob is on one side and he leans in close. It flashes to life for a moment, showing nothing but static. "Mayday..." 

He turns the dial, hoping that'd help, as his heart thumps in excitement. "Hello? Can you hear me?" For a moment the static seems to clear, he can almost see the outline of a face, and then another. "Hello?" 

The only answer is the sounds of something shorting out and the sudden smell of burnt wiring. Backing away awkwardly, he notices the room has gradually gotten brighter. Bright enough he can see everything is covered in a fine layer of dust, the corners and ceiling decked in cobwebs. The only signs that anyone has been here in a long time are his own: scuff marks from his uneven tread, the occasional footprint, and fingerprints and smears upon the console. 

His heart is in his throat as he realises what that means and he slumps over to sit with his back against the console. Lacking even the energy or the motivation to try returning to his previous spot, he sits there in a heap, trying not to think about what this means. No food, no water, no way out, and absolutely no clue where he really is, other than trapped. Behind him, the rotor keeps pumping and the constant humming inside his mind is hypnotic, nearly soothing. 

 

 

 

Rose stares at Pete over the Sunday roast, aghast. "You know what this means, right?" Pete nodded and continues pouring gravy over his mash, completely unperturbed. Her mum looks a bit worried, but rushes to say, "It's not like he had a choice, Rose. God only knows what that one's getting up to, having a TARDIS and all. He could rewrite all of history, or anything..."

"But to just kill him on sight," Rose protested. "We don't know what happened, or who this bloke is or anything, and if someone just shoots him, we never will."

"Well it's not like we've got a way to locate either the ship or him. He could be anywhere, Rose. Anywhere, in all of time or space — and that ship is impenetrable."

"The Time Lords have that Scoop thing, they could always just..." She stares down at her own plate, unbelieving, appetite fled. This wasn't right, none of it. Even the Doctor wouldn't condone something like this, even if it was his ship that has been stolen. He'd want to know the why and the how, even if no one else did. 

Pete sighs, shaking his head. "They've already tried it, doesn't work. The ship is unbonded, what with the circumstances... Either way, it's not our mess to deal with anymore. The Shadow Proclamation, has the technology and are carefully tracking the ship. If it touches down on any planet, they'll be there within an hour and will have both him and the TARDIS in custody." Breaking off with a shrug, he went back to eating and her mum went back to chattering about Tony's school football team. 

Rose picks at the rest of her meal before heading back to her flat a few hours later, after a few perfunctory excuses. She still has a couple days left on her month long suspension, and thoughts of handing in her resignation dance through her mind. Torchwood has done some unconscionable things before, been rather heavy handed when it came to alien interactions in the past. Hell, they'd been heavy handed with the Doctor at times. Enough that part of her still blames them for what happened. After all, if things had worked out better there, if they'd been on his side more, would he have ever felt forced to grab her and the TARDIS and run, only to end up on Gallifrey?

Not that anyone can know the answer for sure, but she often wonders. Usually during sleepless nights when she's tossing and turning in bed and wishing the universe could have been just a bit kinder. Nights like this one, when the darkness is pressing in and the sounds of the city are muffled enough by walls to seem almost incorporeal. A distant illusion of sound in her dreamless solitude. Tossing and turning through the hours, one eye on the red numbers on the alarm clock, Rose notes the passing of midnight. First one hour and then the next slips by, before her eyelids finally begin to droop. She's almost asleep when she hears a sound she never expected to hear again.


	6. Chapter 6

As he dozes fitfully, he doesn't notice part of the console opening. An unseen hatch rises, golden threads of light creeping out and reach to touch the slumbering form. Reaching out gently and drawing forth the energy trapped within the man who is twitching in mild discomfort, completely unaware. 

Instead, he's dreaming. Surrounded by fire and darkness, he can feel the heat reaching out to touch him. It tickles, even as it sears. Somewhere beyond the flames he can hear voices, lots of them. An entire crowd raging, words lost in an incomprehensible wall of sound that has him trapped just as surely as the flames. Faces are glimpsed, distorted as he turns, calling out for someone, anyone. But the faces are soon lost amidst the masses, blurring and blending into a solid wall that calls for blood. That leaves nothing for him but the flames. He doesn't fear the conflagration, however. Instead it draws him, calling him closer. It bears no judgement, no condemnation nor obligation. It just is: pure, devouring, and cleansing in its wake. Something tells him he could never be that clean, that pure, or exist as an all-destructive absolute.

He'd like to try. 

A hestitant step back, eyes on the crowd...

Another voice halts his retreat and he stops, caught between the inferno and the mob. But he sees no one, the flames have grown too high. They're surrounding him now, and no matter where he goes they will consume him. So he stands, head held high, the sounds of devouring flame and roaring crowd blending together as one...

Perhaps it is the dream that wakes him, or perhaps it's the sudden revving of the engines. Waking with a gasp, he tenses. He's sweating and it feels like everything, including the inside of his head is itching. This is familiar, the feelings of withdrawals, but he's not sure when or where he's felt this before. But no matter, the grinding, wailing roar he'd heard when he woke still rings in his ears as he rights himself, one hand catching his balance as he sits there, bewildered. The room is shaking, and rocking about, sending him sprawling on the floor again. As he tries to remember how he got here, or where he was, or anything else that he can attach his thoughts to besides the incessant roar, he starts an awkward crawl towards the entrance.

It might be best to see if the doors will open now, he thinks, grabbing onto the railing for stability. But before he can gather his legs under himself and stand, the floor suddenly seems to drop. Or rather, it's more that he's dropping because the floor is suddenly disappearing, becoming insubstantial, and he's falling. 

This is also something familiar, far too familiar. Falling through darkness, all sense of direction lost before the sudden stop, just like before. Landing drives the breath from him, but there's something solid under his back again. Fingers stretch to grasp short, coarse fibers as he struggles to catch his breath. Somehow he'd forgotten to breathe and the hoarse rasping of air in his throat blends in with the wheezing groaning of the engines. His heart is pounding hard enough to remind him he's alive, that this is real. As if the dull ache that was spreading everywhere hadn't. This is becoming way too common an occurrence, he thinks. Falling, landing, hurting... 

It's like a nightmare from which he can never wake.

Eyes closed, he just lays there as the sound begins fading. Cracking one open, the first thing he sees is a dimly lit ceiling. No tiles, it seems to be plaster instead. It's not spinning, or overly blurred so he has hope that this time he's not hit his head. Even better, it's neither hedge or a strange mix of vaulted ceilings interspersed with sagging wiring. There's also too much detail for him to hope this is all another dream, or perhaps a fever induced hallucination. Hazarding the risk of opening both and lifting his head slightly, he sees that blonde again, the one with the car, this time she's holding a gun aimed steadily in his direction. There might not be any bright lights half blinding him this time, but still he wonders if time really is an unending loop. 

It has certainly repeated itself more than enough lately. 

 

She wasn't even sure why she felt that sudden surge of giddy hope at that wheezing groan. Or why she half expected to see him stepping out the door with a crooked smile and an outstretched hand, hair gelled up into that oh so familiar spiked mess. Instead, the TARDIS was fading away before her eyes already. A brief flash of light in the shadows of her lounge, so brief that she could have almost mistaken it for a light shining through the blinds. It didn't even materialise all the way, her eyes catching only a ghostly impression of those blue walls that become more translucent before her eyes. Perhaps it was some foolish hope that made her step forward and yell "Wait, Doctor," even as the last of it faded, sound and all. But it hadn't left without trace. Not at all. 

Stretched out on her floor, clinging to her carpet like it was the his last chance of salvation was a shadowed form of a man. Heart in her throat, she flicked the light switch on, thoughts of the impossible happening. Could the universe have decided to be kind to her for once, and give back the one thing she'd really had other than a job? 

But no, it wasn't. Several inches taller, several stone heavier, and seemingly somehow able to bring just as much chaos in his wake, it was him. The same bloke she'd run into with her SUV almost two months ago, in her lounge. The one who'd stolen the TARDIS. And here he is, having the nerve to show up here after what he'd done...

It takes all of moments to run back to grab her weapon from her bedside and come back to stand over him. "Who the hell are you?" she demands, angry because he'd taken the TARDIS. Angry because for one moment he'd given her hope again, before utterly destroying it. Angry because he's the last person she had expected to see. 

Well, nearly.

He opens his eyes and blinks at the sudden light, one hand coming up to shield his eyes with a muffled groan. Glancing around, his eyes quickly meet hers and then go wide. After a moment he closes them again, and she cocks the hammer on her gun. At that he actually sits up halfway, all of his weight on one elbow and just stares at her. There's no challenge or dare in his eyes, just the shellshocked regard of someone who's utterly confused and is beginning to lose their grasp on reality. 

She can't shoot him. For Christ's sake, he's just laying there, dazed, still wearing the gear from the medical ward and shivering slightly. But still, she has no idea who he is or what he's after.

"Oi!" she says to catch his attention when she notices his eyes begin to lose focus. 

His head dips and she hears a hoarse whisper. "Wasser, bitte."

"What, so you can escape?" 

He slumps, shaking his head mutely.

Still wondering if it's a trap, she cautiously sidles to her small kitchenette that's only a few feet away. Keeping him in her sights, she grabs a glass down from the cupboard and fills it from the sink, before cautiously crouching to offer it to him. 

He drinks it down like he's not seen water in days. Same with the second and the third, to the point she refuses him the fourth. "You'll make yourself sick if you drink any more and you're not ruining my carpet, mate."

He settles back with a groan, seemingly to exhausted to rise. She's half considering giving in and filling the glass again when she hears sirens and a low rolling rumble in the distance. It's getting louder by the moment. Guessing he's not in any shape to put the rush on her, she moves to the window and looks out. 

It's raining suddenly, drops lashing against the glass in a frenzy. But they're falling upwards and she knows what's happening. Even from the height of her tenth floor flat and half a city away the Judoon's ship appears massive. The glow from the engines lights up the horizon as it touches down somewhere near Hyde Park. Just great, the paper is going to have a field day with this. The City had only just finished redoing the sod last week, after those kids had set it on fire during Bonfire Night. She can almost imagine the faint shapes of the Judoon themselves beaming down, bulky masses descending slowly to earth. Blue lights in the distance herald the immediate response of both the police and Torchwood agents, all hurrying to the scene. The thump of helicopters are faint in the distance, telling her that UNIT is also coming, and why not, it's only expected. But if they're there, and he's here.... 

Her heart stops for a moment.

Of course, they have been tracking the TARDIS all along. They'd have known when and where it materialised. Wouldn't be hard for the Shadow Proclamation to trace the ship. But that didn't explain, why everyone was going in the opposite direction when he was here, in her flat. She glances back at her intruder. He's managed to sit up, slumped against her wall, obviously gathering his strength to stand. Despite the shadows, she can see enough of his face to tell he's afraid. 

She wonders if he knows. If he knows the Judoon are here on Earth looking for him, that the sentence has already been passed, and that there's no escaping it. Maybe that's why he's not attempted to run or anything, why he sits wearing an expression of obvious resignation, despite his hurried breathing that's verging on panic. She can only imagine where he's been, or what he had attempted when he took off in the TARDIS. He stirs and his eyes finally meet hers. Sea green eyes that only look tired and sad search her face before he looks away again. In that moment he looks more like he's trying to puzzle out something than preparing himself for death.

But no, someone had to have seen. One of the sensors had to have picked up the ship's brief detour here. Someone had to be coming, and soon, what with such a heavy response. After all, he's a wanted fugitive, an unknown quantity in so many meanings of the term. Rose is bracing herself for the inevitable crash of her door being broken in, the coming chaos and inevitable attempt at flight, and wonders if she can do it. It's her duty, after all. 

She's a Torchwood agent, sworn to protect earth from all alien influence. The Shadow Proclamation is the highest authority in the universe, and he's committed a grievous crime. Theft of a cultural artifact. Punishment: execution. No matter that the TARDIS was already the subject of contention between her and the Time Lords, no matter that she's got her own reason to want him captured. No matter it was the last thing she'd had left besides memories and he'd stolen it. If the ship was recovered or not, it'd be locked away in the Shadow Proclamation's vaults somewhere, never to be seen again... But still, he's just some tired looking bloke in a hospital gown and blue socks, with his leg in a brace, and fingers once again clinging to her carpet. Hell, he looks like he's half to fall over as it is, she thinks. 

 

When the expected doesn't happen, she turns back to the window. Everything on the estate is calm. A few kids running across the car park, a wino getting drunker by the building across the way. Only a few lights on at this hour, with most people sleeping deep enough to not notice the Judoon's arrival, or can't be arsed to even look out the window, because spaceships arriving at odd hours is now a commonplace happening. It's completely normal out there, unlike the chaos on the other side of the city that she can fully picture. She's been at enough scenes like that one to know there's dozens, if not hundreds of people scrambling about. There's probably a search underway already. 

The rain is still falling when she turns back. He's standing now. Still leaning against the wall, and looking unsteady, but he's upright. Looks a bit pale and green about the edges, but he's standing under his own power. 

"Come here," she demands. At his hesitation, she walks over and grabs his wrist, pulling him behind her. Tugging him down, she points at the ship. "Do you see them?"

"Scheiß..." It's barely a whisper.

"That's the Judoon. Act as prison guards and executioners for the Shadow Proclamation."

He looks at her like she's insane.

"Galactic judicial system," she adds.

A confused smile crosses his face. "You're joking."

"I'm not!" she protests. "Just look. Does it look like I'm having you on?"

"No, it looks like you're crazy." He patted her arm. "Don't worry, I think I've gone crazy too. All this..."

"This is real, you twat! Them, out there, they're here looking for you. As executioners."

Her outburst makes a visible impression as his smile fades. She can see him swallow as he glances out the window again before looking away like the sight burned. 

"How the hell did you manage have the ship leave you here?" she demands, angry. She can feel the slight tremble in his arm as he shifts away to lean against the wall. He's staring ahead blankly, as if in shock. No surprise, if it was her, she'd be feeling much the same. Still, she needs answers, so she nudges his arm. 

No reaction. A long moment passes before he shakes his head as if to wake himself. "Was?" he says slightly louder, his voice still raspy. At least he seems capable of communicating again. 

"The thing with the ship, getting her to leave you here and then go somewhere else," she reminds him. "Is there another one of you?"

He blinks at her, starting to slide down the wall before carefully catching himself. "Ship? What ship?" 

He does a very good impression of being utterly lost and confused, she will admit, but she's not going to let him get away with not answering. "That one, the one you stole and came back here in." She points back at the window in frustration. 

He glances towards the window and then lets out a relieved chuckle. "Äch, the fucked up little shed." 

"Quit it with the bullshit, Mister," she snaps, stepping close and poking him in the chest with her finger. And finds that he's a lot taller than she's expected. Taller than the Doctor, even. And looks a lot stronger. "It's not a fucked up shed," she finishes lamely, wondering how she'd managed to practically drag him across her flat. Or why he let her, even. She's not even sure why she hasn't gotten on the Coms to let them know he's here. "How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get here," she prompts, exasperated.

"I fell," is the simple reply, stated as matter-of-factly as if she was asking him how he got a bruised shin.

"And this? You here, the ship there... how'd you manage that?"

"I..." -a pause as he runs his hand through his hair nervously- "don't know."

He's shaking slightly, enough that she can see it. Enough that she's already wondering how she's going to shift him if he does go down. 

"What do you mean you don't know?" she demands. 

"I don't."

Rose wants to call him a liar, wants to say it's all bullshit, it's not possible, people don't just fall out of the TARDIS willy-nilly. But he's merely looking at her. Or rather, looking at her with no signs of deception in those wide green eyes with his eyes continually trailing down nervously to her other hand, where she still held the gun. When she puts it away, tucking it into the waistband of her sleep shorts, he looks relieved. She wishes she could feel relieved, someone in this mess deserves to, because what the hell is she going to do now?

 

 

Not sure how much longer he has before his knees finally give out, even the one with the brace, he forgoes manners and pushes past the woman. He's noticed there's a sofa on the other side of the room and reasons he's got enough in him to make it that far. Sinking into the cushions, he's too dazed and sore to care what happens next. He just hopes there's food, possibly some of those pills to ease the pain, but he'll settle for just food and a room with floors that don't suddenly disappear or make his brain hurt. Even death wouldn't be too bad at this point. It would be a break from all this madness. After all, who wouldn't be a bit overwhelmed to find aliens are real, much less that one has somehow accidentally broken the law and sentenced to death along with everything else... 

But this, this is comfortable. More so than any hospital bed or old seat from an auto, or even the carpeted floor he'd landed on not too long ago. He could almost fall asleep. Sleep, hopefully just to forget and not to dream. A few hours of blissful Oblivion...

But no, he can feel her eyes upon him. It's unsettling, being watched. Nearly as much as being completely lost and alone in a strange world. At least he can understand her. That verdammt ringing in his ears seems to be gone this time. It won't be missed. But now he suspects the questions will begin again. Questions he doesn't have any answers for and more importantly, no answers in return for his own. He'd like to at least know why she seems so angry and why everyone seemed so intent in keeping him in that room before. That ship or whatever it was, it was an accident. He'd also like to know why she keeps turning up every time just before things get worse.

But no, she just watches him. When he opens his eyes, she's seemingly as shocked and just as uncertain as he is. He'd feel more sympathetic, but hey, she's probably got an idea of where she is or what year it is, unlike some people. He can't even remember his own name. 

She finally leaves the room, and he hears the disembodied squawk of voices. Coming back out with some sort of little box in her hands, she's listening carefully and pacing between the door and the little kitchen.

"No sign of the suspect. The Judoon have the TARDIS, over," comes one voice amidst the static.

"Continue patrols and notify the police and military. He can't have gone far..."

The chatter drones on on the little radio and he's clever enough to realise they're talking about him. There's people out looking for him, unhappy that he's seen that weird little building with the impossible room inside. Probably not too happy that he'd escaped their hospital either, or whatever that place was. 

He eyes his hostess, uncertain of what she's going to do. But she's hasn't tried answering them, hasn't told them that he's here, on her sofa. Hell, she had even put away the gun. Even if she's still looking like she's regrets her decision, she still doesn't radio in his location. She's not even making any attempt to block him from the door. He could make a run for it. Just a few strides and he'd be there. One turn of the doorknob and he'd be outside, on his way to....

No where, because he didn't have it in him. Not now, not with his leg like this, no shoes, and apparently every entity on earth with a gun after him. Maybe if he had something to eat he'd feel better. Eat, answer some of her questions, the run as soon as she was distracted. Perhaps then he'd not feel quite as trapped.

 

"How the hell did you do it?" Rose prods him. 

"Do what?"

"Start the ship," she says, exasperated. This must be what pulling teeth is like, she thinks.

He's just sitting there, eyes half closed and seemingly zoned out again. Occasionally his eyes drift shut, only to open again when he flinches every time she comes near. He's breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose, nearly expressionless. Looked as cool as a cucumber until she had spoken. Startling slightly, he looks at her for a long moment before the hint of a half smile crosses his lips. "Give me some food and I'll tell you," he says simply before closing his eyes fully. 

He's got some bottle, she'll give him that. Sitting there bold as brass, bad leg propped up on the arm of her sofa, and now offering to trade food for information. A sharp rebuke rises in her throat but she catches herself. With a sigh she goes into her small kitchen. There's some leftover curry from two nights ago on the second shelf. Should be edible enough, she reckons. 

It definitely is, judging by the way he eats it down without hesitation or even waiting for her to heat it. After, he burps, but blushes slightly. His eyes are already wandering back to her fridge. Remarkable how much better he's looking already, she notes. Less pale and decidedly not looking like he's about to pass out at any point from shock alone. 

As she opens a tin of beans she wonders how she's gotten into this. She's got some strange middle aged bloke who seems intent on eating her out of house and home. Her mum would be thrilled. He'd eat meatloaf and Sunday roast without complaint and enough of it that even she'd be satisfied. Or she would if it wasn't for the part where said bloke is also a wanted fugitive. She could turn him in, call in and say she found him wandering about randomly. Hell, she could even haul him in herself, if she wanted. A packet of crisps or three as a lure and he'd probably walk in there himself. Except she couldn't. Despite everything, she knew the Doctor would be disappointed if he knew she handed some poor bastard over to be summarily executed without at least knowing why he'd done what he had. Or how. 

Because honestly, he's not much to look at, if you're going by what you're expecting a TARDIS thief to look like, she thinks. Even if he was an agent for some unknown entity, like Jake had posited, he didn't look the part. At this point, he looked like he'd escaped from a mental hospital and had been sleeping rough since, what with him being halfway to a decent beard and all. His hair is slightly long on top, shorter on the sides with grey showing in places. From what she can remember of the first time she'd seen him, standing there in the glare of the headlamps, he's lost a bit of weight. But not much, even if the food from the cafeteria at the Canary Wharf does leave a lot to be desired. She remembers seeing the report that said he'd been a fitful eater. Definitely wasn't now, at least, she mentally added. The leg was definitely slowing him down, and would definitely prove a weakness if he did try to run, especially since she notices him reaching down to rub it over the brace.

He was halfway through the second plate of beans, eating like he'd not seen food in weeks, when she asked again. He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and gave her one of those blank looks again. Popping the food in and chewing away, she hears him mumbling. 

"What? Speak up, I can't hear you for all the beans in your mouth." 

"I have no idea," he says slightly louder before continuing, completely oblivious to her frustration. 

"That's not an answer!" she exclaims. 

But no, he seems determined to ignore her. So here she is, fuming quietly. When he's finally through, he looks up at her and hesitating, says a soft thank you. 

"Well?" She prompts again, noticing that he's getting that far-away look again. 

His eyes flash and for the first time she catches a hint that he's more than just some dazed and confused lump as he leans forward and says in a low voice, "All I was trying to do was get out of that place. One day I wake up in a field, completely lost. I go looking for my friends or anyone else, and some lady hits me with a car. Next I know, I get locked in hospital, strapped to a bed, and no one tells me anything and won't let me go home. So I try to go home. People with guns came running, I ran too. See little shed, go inside, hope no one shoots. Then everything starts shaking, too much noise so I can't even think, and then I couldn't get out again. Then somehow I end up here, you start threatening to shoot me, tell me other people want to kill me and then give me food. Alles klar?" Before she can respond, he stands up and moves for the door. He's faster than she expects, enough that she barely gets there before him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Away. Thank you for the food." He's got his hand on the knob, and his shoulder turned toward her.

Ducking around him, she pushes his hand away and blocks the door. "Oh no you don't, you can't leave."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

"No, but they will. The ones with that rocket out there."

He waves a dismissive hand at that. "You said that already," he says, reaching out both hands like he intends to just pick her up and move her aside. She smacks them aside. "I'm not joking, mate. Since you stole the TARDIS, that's an instant death sentence right there when they catch you."

"Ja? And you're going to do what, keep me here?" He smirks at her, looking her up and down dismissively. 

Despite the fact she remembers the report that said it took five agents to stop him on his second escape attempt at Canary Wharf, she's not cowed. She's stared down Daleks and even the Time Lord's, blokes in hospital gowns aren't exactly scary. Instead she steps close and says in a low voice, "If I have to, yes."

"Why?"

"Cos it was my TARDIS, mate. And because of you, I'll never get it back. But despite that, I don't think it's worth killing someone over, even if they're some miserable, stubborn bastard with a death-wish."

For a moment he's glaring at her angrily, looming over her enough to make her notice he's a lot bulkier than she's noticed previously. Not that she cares, she's gone nose to nose with far bigger and far more dangerous characters than him. "So unless you want to get zapped into a pile of bone ash, I suggest you park your arse back on that sofa," she says flatly, chin raised. A little shove against his shoulder helps make her point, even if it's not enough to even shift his balance. 

"Look, it's your funeral, mate. Forgive me for trying to save anyone's life here," she snaps sarcastically. She has half a mind to let him go, a lifetime of guilt be damned. 

Then comes the faint roar of engines in the distance. A glance at the window shows the rain is falling in the proper direction once again, though the continued chatter on the Coms and past experience tells her this is far from over. Once the Judoon search the ship and don't find him, they'll be back. While she was expecting this at any moment, he obviously wasn't. For a moment the facade drops and his expression is one of pure terror, quickly masked behind one of angry obstinace. She pushes him again. Surprisingly, he backs up a step, still eyeing her distrustfully. She returns his look with an unimpressed glare of her own. At that moment he seems to deflate, bravado and temper losing out to the effects of exhaustion and injury. He looks away for a moment, his fringe slipping forward to partially hide his eyes when he looks back at her. "I didn't steal it," he says before limping back to the sofa. 

A long moment passes as she wonders what she's going to do now and he leans back and makes himself comfortable again. Brows lowered and glaring, he watches her. He's angry, she can tell, but there's no help for it. 

Finally he drops his eyes before he speaks hesitantly, "What now?"

Sighing, Rose checks to make sure the door is still locked and goes to her bathroom. She can't believe she's doing this, she thinks as she grabs a few things out of her work bag. On second thought, she ducks into her bedroom and grabs a spare blanket off the bed. To her surprise he's still on the sofa when she comes back, stretched out on his back with one leg on the floor and the other hanging over the end. Tossing the blanket over him, she bends down to hand him the pills she'd grabbed from her bag, hiding what else she had brought from there was well. "Here, take these. It's cocodamol."

His eyes light up and he takes them from her hands gently before swallowing them with relief. It's the perfect distraction, since he doesn't even notice when she puts the handcuff around his wrist and quickly fastens it to the sofa leg. 

"I'm Rose Tyler, by the way," she says as she straightens. 

"Oh, nice to meet—" he starts, stopping when his attempt to offer to shake her hand failed by reason of the handcuffs. Raising an eyebrow, he questions, "Is this really necessary?" 

"Yeah, mate, it is. It's half 3 in the morning and I'm planning on going back to bed and sleeping peacefully without having to worry you're going to try to scarper." He glares, and she gives him an overly glowing smile in return before walking away. "Sweet dreams," she adds over her shoulder.

She could almost swear she heard a mumbled "fuck you" from the sofa.


	7. Chapter 7

From outside he can hear the sounds of a city waking up. Distant sirens, the hum of strange motors overhead, the rumble of tires on pavement... Inside, the flat is quiet. Nothing but his own breathing comes to his ears as he half dozes, basking in the fading lull of the narcotics. Too fraught with nerves to sleep, he's spent the entire time since the woman disappeared lying on this sofa. It hadn't taken him long to find it was too short to be comfortable, leaving him with the choice to either let his legs hang over further or to contort himself into a position that wasn't overly kind to his back. Now as the grey light of dawn is creeping past the blinds in the small kitchen, it's starting to cramp. Plus other needs are making themselves known, ones that won't wait for much longer. 

With a groan, he slides off onto the floor. For a moment he stays there, crouched down and tempted to give in to the aches. Everything hurts, right down to the bone it seems, and he can't help but muffle a moan. But no, he can't stay here. He'll ruin her carpet, otherwise, and he remembers her previous concerns. Carefully balancing himself, he braces his shoulder against the sofa and lifts. It's more awkward than he thought it would be, kneeling on one leg while trying to keep from putting any pressure on the other, but he's got more than enough strength in his arms. Groaning at the feeling of unused muscles protesting and the remaining stiffness in his spine, he holds the confining piece of furniture up with his other hand long enough to slip it off under the leg before letting it drop with a muffled thump. Now to find the toilet.... 

Fortunately, it's the second of the four doors he locates on the short hallway off from the lounge he's been in since he arrived. The first had been some sort of closet. After finishing, his eye catches the available shower and his mood brightens. He wonders if the woman will mind his using her soap and all, but then thinks if so, she's got no business demanding he stays, no matter what her reasoning is. He'll feel better when he's clean, and the hot water will be soothing.

It is, more than he expects, and it's almost enough to make him feel fully human again. It's awkward with the brace on his leg, but he manages. Getting it wet probably isn't the best of ideas, and it'll soon begin to chafe, but he'll worry about that later. Flicking his fringe out of his eyes, he finds there's a towel hanging on a bar outside the shower, and some razors in the vanity. They're pink, but he doesn't care. Shaving feels familiar to his hands, even if his eyes aren't familiar with what is revealed. He notes old acne scars and others that are different and don't lend themselves to an easy explanation he can think of, much less remember. Even staring into his own eyes doesn't bring anything back. At least, nothing that comes back easily and he flinches away at trying to dig deeper. He finds a comb and again shrugs away the thought of presuming on hospitality and slicks his hair back before wrapping the towel around his waist. The clothes he had — if he could call them that — are in need of washing. 

The flat is still silent other than the slight rattle of the handcuffs still hooked to his wrist when he comes back out. Rummaging around the kitchen he finds a small washing machine and throws his shirt, shorts, and socks in. They can wait for the now, he thinks as he pulls his hospital robe back on. A kettle is found in one cupboard, a box of tea bags beside it, mugs in another. He's gotten himself comfortable at the small table and is looking out when he hears a "What the hell..."

She's standing there staring at him, sleep mussed and bewildered. "How'd..." She waves a hand in the direction of the lounge behind her. Eyes bright with fear, she steps back slightly, seemingly unwilling to look away.

"It's not that heavy," he scoffs, quietly.

Now she begins to look frightened and he feels bad. He knows what it looks like; after all, he's seen himself in the mirror. Knows he's large enough to intimidate most of the people he's encountered in this strange land, but still. She was willing to protect him last night when he looked far worse. Or was she having regrets, now that the cold light of dawn revealed far more to the eye and reason had started to creep in and make the argument that keeping strangers in your lounge wasn't the best idea?

"But..." she splutters.

He watches her face work through surprise, anger and shock with amusement, tinged with worry. "Had to piss." And hopes she doesn't bring the gun out again.

"I mean..." She waved back at the sofa blindly. 

"Want some tea?" he asks blandly, trying to make himself look smaller, less threatening, less capable of rearranging her entire flat one handedly with ease.

She sighs and nods, cautiously sitting in the chair opposite him. He gets up carefully, slowly moving back to the kettle after getting another mug. He can feel her eyes upon him the entire time and finds it unnerving. For a moment he wonders if he was this way before all this. "I'd ask if you want sugar, but I don't know where that is," he says as he sets it down.

"'S'ok, I don't think I've got any," she mumbled as she sips. "It's not like I'm here that much." 

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask. He's already noticed the place doesn't really feel lived in, what with the bare walls and lack of actually comfortable furniture. She doesn't offer. Instead an awkward silence settles in, while he drinks his own and keeps his eyes averted toward the window. There's no sign of the rocket from before, and the growing light reveals tower blocks and the raised motorway beyond, the rest of the city looming further out. It's overcast, with scattered zeppelins floating between buildings like sheep amongst boulders. He can almost feel the thump of engines from here. Somehow that's what's the most jarring out of all this. Rocket ships are easily imagined, but why zeppelins? Why something so mundane as those? None of this shared delusion makes any sense. But then, he really has to ask himself why was he still trying to wrest sense from insanity. 

 

The sounds of someone else moving around in her flat had awakened her, briefly giving her a warm and comfortable feeling. Then she remembered and came running out in a panic. Now she's cursing her own stupidity at thinking something as small as a sofa could restrain a bloke that size. That and nursing a bit of gratitude that he'd not taken the opportunity to scarper. No, he'd just taken a shower and cleaned up, which was now leading her to wonder where the hell his clothes actually were. She'd momentarily noted the pink fluffy towel snugged around his hips when he'd handed her a mug of tea, just before averting her eyes. Gods, what am I going to do? I can't just keep him here, she thought. This is a stupid idea. No matter what the Doctor would say or do, or my own bloody guilt for nearly running him over, he's at least eighteen stone of bullheaded obstinance that I don't know from Adam. Plus the Judoon... 

But no, she can't. Not with the poor guy looking even more unsure and awkward than she feels, and him trying to cover it up by looking out the window with a bored expression. His muscles are way too tense and breathing too quick for him to be nearly as relaxed as he's putting on. 

When she clears her throat he flinches, fingers twitching against the mug in his hands. He's cradling it carefully, as if he expects it to shatter at his touch. Unlike the previous times she's seen him, or even the night before, he's not combative or even quietly hostile. More like he's waiting, really. But then, even he knows that her questions are inevitable, as well as many. Starting with, "How come you can understand me now?" Beginning cautiously, Rose knows that if she pushes too hard he'll shut down entirely and ignore her, just like before. 

He gives her an odd look, eyes going distant as he considers her words. For a moment she thinks he's about to checkout again, what with the way he then ducks his head and stares at his own hands. Just like she'd done only moments before when she didn't think he was watching. 

His low voice almost startles her. "I did, back when you... when your car hit me." A pang of guilt from that. "It was afterwards, my mind started catching up and then the drugs and all, I couldn't. Something kept roaring, inside here," he points at his head and sighs. "I don't know how to explain. Everything was so... upside down and I didn't know what was going on, and nothing made sense." 

That's something she can understand. She'd felt it so many times, in a milder form, using the Dimension Cannon. "Void sickness."

He glances up her and gives a slight nod along with a a quiet snort. "Not that it makes any sense now, any of it, but ja...." More careful changing of his grip against the porcelain mug as he gathers his thoughts. "It was like an ocean inside my head. Tides come in, tides go out. Sometimes a word got through here and there. Some days more, some days less. Bits and pieces, like 'Parallel worlds' —whatever those are." 

He may not be doing it outright, but she knows what he's asking and it's reasonable. Owen always has been curt and rather shit at explaining things. She's not sure if she'll be any better at it, but she can remember how the Doctor had explained it so long ago. "It all starts with one world, yeah? Until something happens, an event large enough to change the course of history. Like say when that asteroid came and wiped out the dinosaurs, there's worlds where that didn't happen. Or maybe the first human ancestors never left the trees, and so dolphins or something else ended up developing their own civilization."

He laughs at this, a sharp bark of disbelief. "You must think I'm some sort of idiot."

"No, cos it's true. Look outside, do you remember zeppelins being everywhere?" she challenges.

"Lady, I don't even remember my name, but do go on. This is entertaining," he says in a flat voice as he rest his elbow on the table and props his chin on it. The handcuffs are still attached, glinting dully in the light from the window. His eyes are hard and mocking as he stares at her.

For a moment she wants to throttle him, but no, she can understand his disbelief. She remembers how upset and angry she was when she first ended up here. Gritting her teeth and reminding herself to be patient and understanding, she starts, "Look, I know what it's like. I wasn't born here either. Where I came from, England had a Queen, the Hindenburg happened, and so did World War Two." His eyes flicker at that, as if that stirred a hint of a memory. Some day she'll have to try discussing as much history from the Universe Prime as she can remember to see if that jogs anything loose. "Yeah, we had aliens invading almost every week it seemed like, but there was this bloke, the Doctor, and he protected us. Protected Earth," she finishes nearly at a whisper. She's not said his name in months, tried avoiding all memories, even after the last month with the TARDIS disappearing. For a moment she almost hates him, this strange intruder whose presence is forcing her to dig up the past in any way, even if it's just enough to explain his own predicament. 

Rose blinks away tears, willing herself to stay strong. A glance shows her unwanted guest is no longer mockingly slumped against the table, but rather is sitting back in his seat and awkwardly pulling at the thin robe he wears. 

"I was traveling with him," she continues, grateful when the slight hoarseness in her voice dissipates along with the tightness in her throat. "It's how I ended up here, me and my mum. She's married to the parallel version of my dad. His version, she got killed by the Cybermen. Me, I work for Torchwood. We were out investigating rift activity, found a couple dead bodies, some rubbish, and a bicycle. Was heading back to our lodgings for that night when I..."

He suddenly leans forward, eyes intense as he interrupts, "Parallel versions? So there's people who exist on all these worlds?" 

She shakes her head. "We tried identifying you that way, but it didn't help. We even sent your picture and finger prints out to every government on earth. If there was a version of you here, they died during the Cyber Days and the records got lost."

A pensive look crosses his face and she can nearly see the gears turning in his head as he bites his lip, thinking. It startles her when he leans forward again, that intense look in his eyes again as he asks, "That box, if we could get it back, it could take me home, oder?"

It was the one question she'd hoped he wouldn't ask. The one that hurt too much to answer. Wordlessly she shakes her head, hoping that he won't press further. But the universe isn't kind, as she's learned so many times before.

"Warum?"

She knows what he means just from his tone and the way he's watching her. Studying her features and looking for any trace of deception. She's already realised he's far more clever and more observant than expected. Jake would be at the heights of paranoia right about now and honestly, if she wasn't so busy wishing she could get out of this conversation, she'd be wondering, too.

"Because we'd need the Doctor to run the TARDIS and we can't, because..." Her voice fails and he's still watching her, but he's not looking quite as predatory now. It's still too much, looking at someone else as she forces herself to go on. Closing her eyes, she says the words she's not once said, not even in her own mind, the ones everyone else has tried their best to avoid saying where she'll hear it: "Because he's dead."

 

When she manages to reopen her eyes, she can see her own devastation mirrored on his face. Except instead of a lost love, he's mourning an entire world. She can understand now why he'd fought against the Aradnae. If she could forget... no, never. She'd not have missed it for the world. But for him, she can only wonder what he's left behind and knows that sometimes not knowing is a kindness. As she watches the brief glimmer of hope in his eyes die, it stirs her from her own remembered losses, gives her a reason to shove it back down and ignore it again. 

For that she's almost grateful.

"I'm sorry, yeah?" She cautiously reaches out a hand and pats his arm. He doesn't flinch, but she feels the muscles tense before she pulls away. Understanding, but knowing he's likely to be more pliant after such a shock, she presses on, "So the ship..."

For a moment he doesn't answer, seemingly lost in a reverie as he sits there with downcast eyes. She's tempted to give up, thinking she'll try again on a different day, when he finally answers in a slow quiet voice. She could hear the sense of defeat in his voice as he spoke, "It was easier to just ignore everything, just go away and let myself drift. But then it started. Felt like something kept calling me. Made the inside of my head... itch. Wanted to run, find it, thought it might have answers. Thought it was outside, out there" —he nodded at the window— "then when I was in that room, and was running from those men with the guns, I could feel it calling again, even stronger. It was so loud, I thought my head was going to break, but something kept telling me to come, and all there was was that impossible crazy box..."

As Rose hears those words, it hits her. He wasn't lying. She knows that ship too well, knows what the TARDIS is capable of. While it was impossible, just like he's just said, there was no way he could have stolen the TARDIS. Somehow she has to figure out how to explain this to Pete, because she can tell just from looking at the man who's once again staring out the window that he's not likely to be quite as chatty with a different audience. Perhaps between the two of them they could also convince the Shadow Proclamation. Convincing the Time Lords would be a bit much to hope for, but still... Until then, she's got other things to get sorted. 

Getting up from the table, she leaves him there, once again staring out the window. Just from the defeated look on his face she knows he's not going to run. That and she doubts even he's mad enough to pull a runner in nowt but a towel. While she still hasn't a clue what she's going to do, she knows where she can start. She's got a few over sized jumpers in one of the boxes in the back of her wardrobe. Boxes she's avoided just as much as her own memories. And a few other things. The rest she'll have to go to the shops for, though she reckons it's too much to ask that he could possibly remember what sizes he wears.


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm worried about Rose, Pete," Jackie sighs as she set her morning cup of coffee down. She straightens her dressing gown as she continues, "She's not been the same since, well you know. And what with that mess with that bloke stealing the TARDIS and all, I worry." 

"So do I, love, so do I." Pausing as he straightens his tie, Pete adds thoughtfully. "I was expecting more of a protest over the Shadow Proclamation's judgement, honestly."

Indeed, other than the short incident over Sunday dinner, Rose has stayed oddly silent on the whole thing. Pete briefly considers bringing her in for a long conversation, to see what's going on with her, but dismisses it. It's Rose; she'll talk when she feels like it, but not before. 

"They've got what they wanted, they should just leave us all alone now," Jackie says hotly. "And if they think they're getting Rose to try opening that ship up for them, they've got another think coming."

Trying to sound placating, Pete reassures her, "I doubt they will. The CCTV showed the doors never opened, which presumably means that he's still on it. When I spoke to the Architect, she said they already have the ship inside a containment vault with a bio-locked forcefield around it, while they try to negotiate a surrender."

"And?" his wife prods, knowing there's more. 

"Supposedly no response, but they aren't fussed either way. They've got it on the highest authority that nothing can go in or out of that field, which means the TARDIS and her attempted hijacker are going no where," he admits with a sigh. The whole palaver was a proper mess, he had to admit. His own qualms about the death penalty are something that have to stay suppressed. Trying to argue with the Shadow Architect would be more likely to be seen as defiance and he's not about to risk causing an incident. He's heard a few stories from the Gelth ambassador. Such as why they don't have a homeworld of their own anymore. What with their authority backed by the Judoon, earth is far from prepared to start a galactic war. 

"It's bullshit, Pete, and you know it," Jackie returns reprovingly, her voice echoing slightly over the connection. 

"Yes, but it's not like I'm in any position to contest it. Them finally having the ship should get the heat off us all," he adds hopefully, tweaking the knob that adjusts the signal strength. He's been in his office since dawn, and is still anxiously hoping there won't be any more reasons for the Judoon to turn up. He's already got numerous meetings and debriefings with several intelligence agencies, plus the military scheduled. Enough that he's not sure when he'll next be home. 

"No, but you can at least try to keep her away from it all," she replies. "She doesn't need to be throwing herself into the middle of this, and she will if you let her."

Pete gives a long-suffering sigh. This is an old argument, one they've had many times over the years. "Jacks, it's your daughter. When have you ever known her to do a single thing other than run straight for the middle of things? Why do you think I put her on disciplinary leave for a month?" A message from his secretary pops up on his screen. Another meeting was scheduled for late afternoon with the President himself. Isaacson. Just what he needs. He can feel the start of a migraine pressing in behind his eyes and suppresses a moan.

"And that ends tomorrow," Jackie is still fussing. "Isn't there anything else you can do, Pete?"

"Short of locking her in her flat, the next option would be talking her into taking a reassignment to somewhere less active, but that'd be a miracle if anyone could convince her," he explains in a carefully patient voice. Noticing his wife's glare at his tone, he raises his hands defensively. "You're welcome to try talking her into it, love. If you manage to pull that one off, you'll have outdone everyone else in the last ten years."

Jackie narrows her eyes but thinks about it. They've not had much time together in the last few years, what with Rose always working or off somewhere with that Doctor of hers... Yes, it'd be lovely. Especially if it'd mean the pair of them wouldn't be nagging him. He's got enough people on his arse today. They could go out on the town together, do a bit of shopping, get lunch somewhere nice. 

"Fine. I just so will," she finally says and Pete nearly slumps in relief. One situation dealt with successfully. Hopefully, it will solve another one on his long list of problems and situations that need dealing with.

 

As she puts on a comfortable pair of jeans and a nice top, Jackie Tyler marvels at how the times have changed. When she heads out, she dismisses the driver and says she'll drive herself today. It might be a bit gloomy out, but the rain has held off so far, which she has a moment of gratitude for. She'd just spent nearly an hour doing her hair and would rather it not get messed up already. Not before she's shown Rose. The last time she'd headed across the river, she'd been busy worrying about topping up her Oyster card before the next week and wondering where the hell Rose was. She'd certainly not been driving a Mercedes and living in a mansion, either. 

The old estate brings back memories. Well, not their old estate exactly, but the one in this universe looks just the same as it had back in theirs. Same dreary blocks of flats, same rundown playground equipment on the small, weed infested green. The same assortment of people who looked down on their luck. Plus a good number that looked like they'd never had any luck to start with, other than bad. She can't even begin to fathom why Rose had wanted to move back here, especially when she can afford so much better. Especially since she'd had that lovely flat over in Notting Hill, right up until the Doctor had blown the windows out and got them evicted. At least the buildings are cleaner, she thinks as she pulls out the spare key to her daughter's flat. And the elevator works, which she counts as a blessing. 

As she opens the familiar door, she cheerily calls out, "It's me, thought we'd have a mum and daughter d—"

While she was hoping to possibly see Rose awake and sitting at the kitchen table, what she wasn't expecting was that her daughter wouldn't be alone. Much less that her daughter would be sitting next to to someone who was supposed to be trapped on some alien planet somewhere. Instead he's just sitting there, larger than life, holding a mug of tea in a hand that makes it resemble a thimble. 

Rose is busy trying to look innocent, while he's already looking for the exit. Even from across the flat she can see the way he tenses, uncertain whether to stay or go. To say she's shocked is an understatement. However, she's not surprised. More disappointed and having horrifying visions of those talking rhinos bursting through the door after her. 

"What the hell's this, then?" she demands. 

 

The search for appropriate clothing had only turned up one oversized jumper she'd had stuffed at the bottom of a box at the back of her wardrobe. One of the random leftovers she's been lugging around throughout her multiple moves over the years in this universe, she thought it might have been Mickey's once. Either way, it was better than what he'd had, at least. Fortunately, he'd popped the rest in the wash and has shorts on when her mum barges through the door. For a moment her mum just gapes before she puts on her best fake, charming hostess smile and reaching out a hand, says, "I'm Jackie Tyler, Rose's mum. Completely charmed, I'm sure, but I must be having a word with my daughter. In private," while glaring around her smile. 

Clever enough to catch the hint, the man stands carefully and awkwardly limps past them, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind. Mercifully, he doesn't catch her mum's expression when she notices what he's wearing. It only distracts her for a moment, since as soon as he's out of sight, it starts. "Rose Marion Tyler, while I know all too well your love of taking in strays, this is a bridge too far!"

"Mum, what else am I supposed to do!" Rose says in protest. She stands to take the onslaught, wondering if he's listening in or not. Either he is, or he's seriously considering whether bailing out the bathroom window is feasible or no. 

"I don't know, maybe not hiding a bloody giant in your flat!" Jackie is on the verge of having a meltdown. Perhaps rightfully so, Rose will admit. While her mum paces around between the door and the entrance to the kitchen, she continues, "What if I was the bloody Judoon? Then you'd be done in for harbouring a fugitive." 

"So? It's my fault he's even in this mess. If I'd hit the brakes sooner—"

"Then he'd probably be dead from hypothermia or would've gotten knocked over by someone else. Either way, he's still wanted across half the Galaxy."

"The risk isn't any worse than what there was when we took the Doctor after his regeneration. God knows what would have happened if we'd been caught with the him then," Rose retorts, crossing her arms. 

"And he's not him!" Jackie says, exasperated. 

"You don't think I know that, Mum?" Rose looks away. 

"He's dangerous! Look at all the trouble Owen had with him."

"That's Owen," Rose dismisses. "Owen pisses off everyone, mum. Including you."

"And what if you piss him off? What then? Did you even look at him? His arm is bigger than you!" her mum, squawks. "If he decides he's going to run, get himself caught by the Judoon, you're not going to be able to stop him."

"I've stopped him twice already, mum." Rose rubs her forehead and wishes she'd had more sleep. As it is, it's not looking like things will calm down enough for anything of that sort to happen in the near future. She wishes her mum could calm down and stop worrying. "He's not some crazed lunatic or some raging bull."

"And you know that how? What on Earth are you thinking, Rose? You haven't a clue who he really is, where he's from, or anything at all." Jackie gives her a pleading look, hoping she'll see reason. But her own reason is telling her something vastly different from what her mum would wish. 

"No, but I know what'll happen if I don't do something. I've got to at least try to help. I know it's absolute madness, I know it's stupid and dangerous, but it's what he'd do. The Doctor wouldn't let the Judoon execute some poor man just because he wandered into his ship and she decided to go swanning off. He'd be busy trying to figure out how that even happened. Like I am."

"Is that really how it went?" 

Rose nods at this noting her mum's expression of doubt. 

"Then how'd he end up here, when the Judoon picked up the ship last night?" Jackie still looked skeptical. That was the million quid question. "I don't know. I heard the engines fading in around midnight and by the time I got out here, she was almost gone again, leaving him behind—" Rose pointed into her lounge— "I don't think she even materialised all the way."

"Don't tell me that bloody ship's gone and learned something new," Jackie says angrily, shaking her head. "I've really got to be telling your father about this, Rose..."

"Mum, you can't. They'll just come back and arrest him. You know what'll happen after. He's got less of an idea of what's going on than you would do. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Oi!"

"No offense, mum, but it's true. Whatever version of earth he's from, they don't have any of this. It's just as bad as grabbing someone from medieval France and dropping them off on New Earth. And if the Shadow Proclamation calls in the Time Lords— because believe me, that lot'll want their part of it too, considering he's the only one who can get those doors to open — even death would be kinder than that. Even if wasn't some poor, innocent bastard with a dodgy leg, I can't let that happen, Mum."

At that Jackie grows pale and nods silently, thinking. She knows all too well what her daughter means. She's seen the results of getting the Time Lords involved in things, and what could happen to someone. Her face softens, her own resolve crumbling slowly. "I still don't like this one bit. Not at all."

"Mum, I didn't know the Doctor any better..." Rose begins, only to be cut off by her mother's indignant, "Yes, and I thought you were dead, Rose. Dead, cos you'd gone missing without a single word of goodbye, just swanning off with some absolute stranger and forgetting your poor mum."

Not this again. It's been over a decade. Restraining the urge to growl, Rose replies, "How many times do I have to apologise for it, yeah? Can we just move on..."

"Oh right, now we're on to secretly harboring unknown sorts, because that's a logical progression. This isn't going to be something easily sorted by saying you lost your mobile while traveling around the world, or hiding out in Shoreditch," Jackie returns. 

While she's known that since she'd first made the decision to stay silent on the Coms, Rose has been avoiding thinking beyond the next moment. Her mum's right, too. Not only does she barely know the bloke, he's a definite flight risk. It's also gone too far to turn back as it is, but here she is, without any sort of plan beyond "go to work in the morning and say nowt about the guy living on her sofa." 

Like that'll work.

"If the Shadow Proclamation didn't have it, I'd make a run for the TARDIS. She'll open her doors for him and I can probably remember how to fly her..." Rose muses, ignoring the look on her mum's face.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?! That's an even worse idea than just keeping him here. They'd be tracking the pair of you down before you could even blink. And what's to say he'd not take off at the first planet you two get to!"

Her mum's right, honestly. Plus she can just imagine his reaction to her trying to get him to go near the ship again. The haunted look on his face was enough to tell her it'd probably take more than just people with weapons pointed at him to get him back inside. Not that they've got a chance getting into those vaults. "Well then have you got any ideas, cos I don't!" she says in frustration. 

Her mum nods, a look of worried regret creasing her brow. "Pete said the other day there's some cases up North. You could request a reassignment up there. Something about some disappearances around a river..."

Reassignment. The very idea is repulsive to her, but still. Glancing at the closed door down the short hallway, Rose knows she's not got much of a better choice. Neither of them do, actually. He might be her defacto prisoner, but by deciding not to radio in, she's trapped herself just as surely. Shit. Noticing her mum's voice trailing off, she nods. She doesn't like this one bit. The very idea of it's galling. All she needs is more time, time to think of a better idea than buggering off up north until things calm down. Just needs long enough to think without being pressured by her mum or having him watching her expectantly. She's still trying to formulate a protest when Jackie comes over and gives her a hug, tears in her eyes. "I can't believe you've done this, Rose. I'd just hoped you'd settle down, have a family, stop daring luck and fate."

With a wry smile, Rose pushes down her objections for the moment as she teases, "But then I'd not be me, mum." 

"Right you are." A watery laugh escapes her mum's throat before she loosens her tight embrace. Pulling back, Jackie wipes her tears and forces a determined look as she studies her daughter's face. It's like she's trying to memorize what she looks like, as if she'll never see her again. Which is absurd, since at worst she'll just be a zeppelin flight away... After a moment her mum says in a gentler voice, "He's going to need more clothes than what he's got on. Can't have him running about dressed like that, that's for certain. Most of all, we're going to need to call Pete, without telling him why."

 

 

Ear pressed to the wood, he's listening in. The two women are arguing back and forth, the younger one sounding more cajoling and pleading. Not much more than pieces of words filters through, just enough to make him concerned. He's not sure what's happening, can't make out the words enough to tell whether this means someone's going to be calling up the Judoon or whatever they are that he's here. Judging from the view from the window, it's too far to safely jump, so escape is right out of the question. At least from here, he thinks. Nothing in the small room lends itself to being a good defensive weapon, unless he can distract them with a slightly damp, used towel or a shower curtain. Neither sounds like it would be overly successful. So that's it then, whatever happens, happens. Preparing himself for a horrible fate, he waits there, thinking the wait is going to be gut-wrenchingly long and too soon over. But no, suddenly there's a pounding right on the other side of the door, and, "Oi, come on out then."

Uncertain, he opens the door and peeks out. The one who'd said her name was Jackie is standing there waiting. She grabs him and pulls him out, prodding him until he's standing in the middle of the lounge. 

Both of them are staring at him, making him feel self-conscious. Fidgiting, he waits, feeling the minutes pass like hours. It seems like a week has passed since he suddenly found himself on his back on a carpet, being stared down by a scary blonde. Now there's two of them, two scary blondes, both eyeing him up like he's off to market in the morning. And they're still watching him, like he's some strange creature. It's unnerving, to say the least. He wishes they'd just get on with it, whatever it is they've got planned. If they're going to turn him in, he's not sure what the point of this is. Either way, standing like this is making his leg ache and if he's going to be hauled off shortly, he might as well enjoy the comfort of sitting down until then. 

It startles him when the woman grabs him by the shoulders, gives him a light smack, and glares. "Hold still, will you? I'm looking." Looking him up and down for another long moment, she says over her shoulder, "Well he's not going to fit anything Pete's got, that's for flipping sure. Give me that measuring tape from out of my bag, will you, Rose?"

Rose hands it over then steps back, giving him a look of warning when he makes to protest. Going still, he gives her a glare in return. Prisoner or not, this is beyond unusual punishment in his opinion. He's even more confused when she comes close, holding the item against him and then deftly wraps it around his waist. It's awkward, especially when she's practically hugging him to fit it around his chest after making him hold his arms up. Unable to stay silent any longer he mutters, "I don't think I'll be living long enough to need one."

"Need one what?" Jackie squints at him suspiciously. 

He rolls his eyes, patience beginning to run out. "A prison uniform."

Jackie gapes at him while Rose sighs. "We're not turning you in. We're just trying to figure out what sizes you'll need for clothes."

Clothes?

Jackie pats him on the arm, more gently this time. "Don't worry, we'll get you all sorted. You and Rose are going on a nice, lovely trip."

A trip?

Rose gives a groan, shaking her head. "Mum, no. I'm going back to work tomorrow and I'll figure something else out. It doesn't need to go that far."

"Of course you are, love. Right after you ask Pete to reassign you. We went over this, remember," Jackie says calmly as she resumes measuring the man. She's crouched down and holding it against his foot, clicking her tongue and mumbling something about being better off just getting the shoeboxes. 

"But Storiths? Mum, seriously—" Rose sputters, only to be interrupted by Jackie. "It's not like you can stay here, Rose. Be reasonable, he's practically right on Torchwood's doorstep if anyone comes looking, and it's not like you can hide a big ox of a man like this one in a two bedroom flat forever. And you're certainly not dropping him off with Donna's granddad."

Forever: something he's not even considered. Hell, he's not even thought about the next hour, much less next week or month. Either way, his knee is liking this less and he can feel the muscles in his thigh starting to cramp in sympathy. It's enough to make him wonder whether a firing squad would be an improvement. At least they'd probably just get on with it, finally putting him out of his misery instead of arguing.

"Oi!" Jackie snaps her fingers to get his attention back. She wants to measure his arms now, as evidenced by the way she's pulling at his left arm. Finally she gives him another pat on the shoulder and turns away. Taking that as his signal, he moves as quickly as he can to the sofa and collapses with relief. He lets himself slip into a daze as he ignores the two women who are arguing, carefully avoiding thinking about any of what's going on or the possible implications. 

He barely looks up when he hears the door open and close, and dozes off to the sounds of Rose angrily stomping by. Occasionally he'll hear a muttered, "Not the boss of me," or "who does she think she is, anyhow" but he's too busy keeping his mind carefully blank. He almost wishes that roaring was back because it'd be something to focus on. Instead he's feeling the weight of the gap where all his memories used to be and the looming presence of an equally unknown future. At some point he must have dozed off, because the older woman is back and tossing carrier bags at him. 

Rose is back in the lounge, carrying bags of her own, while talking on a mobile phone. Her movements are brusque and hurried, like she's angry. He can only imagine at what, but he figures he's probably the cause of it. That and this mysterious trip her mother had mentioned.

"Get dressed," Jackie prompts, nudging his arm impatiently. With a grunt, he gets up and shuffles to the bathroom, remembering Rose's warning from earlier about getting changed in front of others. 

One bag has a few pairs of black tracksuit bottoms that look loose enough to fit over his brace, as well as several tshirts and some socks. Another has a box with a pair of trainers, which make him think wistfully of the boots he'd had before. But, they fit and are a vast improvement over just plain socks or barefoot. Warmer too. When he comes back out, the women are still arguing, albeit not with each other. They're both on their mobiles and neither notices when he passes on the way to the kitchen. Turning on the kettle, he reuses his mug from earlier. A small clock on the counter catches his eye and it surprises him to see it's only gone noon. Briefly he wonders if days have always felt this long or if it's just him. Probably the effects of this universe's insanity catching up to him, he figures. He's halfway through his third cup of tea when they finally notice him. 

"Funny, you put more clothes on him and he looks smaller," says a voice from behind. Jackie is standing there, eying him again. "Still got that Perception thingy, Rose?" 

Rose disappears into the other room before returning shortly. "What do you need it for?"

"Well how else are you going to travel without him getting caught by the first passing copper?" Jackie snorts. She marches over and grabs the collar of his new shirt, forcing him to bend. Something goes over his head and settles around his neck. Letting him go, the woman steps back. "See?"

They're both standing there, eyeing him strangely. Looking down at himself, he sees only a plain brass key on a shoestring hanging against his chest. He's not sure what the significance of this is, but the pair of blondes are still watching him oddly. He's utterly confused. 

"Was?" he asks, only to be ignored.

"See? Now you'll be able to take him just about anywhere, as long as he keeps quiet," Jackie says smugly, as she turns to her daughter. Rose still looks doubtful.

Grabbing the key, he takes the unorthodox jewelry off, setting it down on the worktop beside him. "What the hell is this for?" he tries again, raising his voice slightly and glaring. 

"Perception filter," Rose explains hurriedly, seemingly distracted. She's still glaring daggers at her mum. "Unless they know you're there, most people and aliens won't be able to see you. Unless it's the Time Lords or they've got sensors up." 

Startled, he just blinks at her. Not a single word of that makes any sense, even if he knows the individual ones. He tries repeating it back to himself in hopes some meaning will miraculously appear, but he's getting hung up on the 'Time Lord' bit. With a sigh, Rose suddenly grabs his hand and the key and hauls him into the bathroom. Before he can protest, she pulls him down and once again puts it on him and then turns him to look at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Or rather, where his reflection should be. He can still see her, standing behind him, but he can't see himself. Raising his hand, he can see it, but nothing shows in the mirror. 

What fresh hell is this...

Leaning forward, he reaches out, still trying to puzzle out what's going on. The thread that is holding his sanity together is quickly unraveling as he scrunches up his face and goes through a variety of expressions. Expressions that remain unseen to his eyes and he laughs at the absurdity. Whoever's in charge of this Universe is on acid, he thinks. Or maybe it's just me. But still, none of the tiny shreds of memory say that this should even possible. 

"How is this even possible?" A frisson of fear surges through him, followed by curiosity. For all the other madness, like giant rooms in tiny buildings and rocket ships, this is beyond those. Far beyond those.

"Time Lord tech," Rose says, seemingly proud in this revelation, but says no more. Instead she motions for him to take it off, adding what seems like an afterthought, "Something the Doctor rigged up."

Once again she's got that far-away look that he'd noticed earlier this morning, back when she was explaining everything he'd been told back at that hospital place. There's obviously a lot more to what she's told him. Vastly so, judging by her emotions, but he's hesitant to pry. After all, he can understand all too well about wanting to avoid remembering what's lost. 

Then she's turning away, soon talking on her mobile again, her mum chiming in frequently, and he's left to his own devices for the moment. Taking the opportunity to hide in the kitchen again, he finishes his tea and eyes the door. He's got proper clothes and shoes now. The opportunity is there, since the women are both distracted with arguing about something to do with "furnished or unfurnished." He's barely paid any attention to it, largely because it's creeping up on him. That claustrophobic feeling of too much uncertainty pressing in, while the urge to run grows with every heartbeat. It's so close, so tantalisingly close... 

The chill of the handcuff slipping around his wrist again brings him back. Rose is standing over him, a disapproving look on her face. "Don't think I didn't see you eyeballing that door, Mister." 

Jackie gives her a knowing look and harrumphs, but goes no further than also glaring at him. Abashed, he ducks his head. Either she's very perceptive or he's extremely transparent. No matter, because he's soon being nudged toward the door. Rose grabs his other hand and forces it behind his back, hooking the other cuff on,. The key is put around his neck again and after she shoulders several bags, he's being led down a hallway by the two women. Jackie is pulling a suitcase behind her, the wheels making a scraping noise as they enter a lift.

They're going down. He stands there, head down and shoulders squared, carefully keeping as much weight as possible off his leg. Somehow he feels the need to spare it as much as he can, since he doesn't know what's coming next. Anything could happen beyond here, anything at all. He's not even sure what he'll see beyond the doors of the lift when they finally open. Plus he reasons that it wouldn't be hard to make a run for it, despite the cuffs. He'd heard what the mother had said, about his presence being a risk to her daughter. While he barely knows her, and also accepts that running is probably beyond futile, he doesn't want to risk someone else's life on account of his own.

It's colder outside than he expects, a cold breeze ruffling his hair as they cross the paved carpark to a very familiar vehicle. It's surreal, and it hits him, as he watches a man pass with a dog. He might as well not exist. Neither react to him, though the man calls a greeting to Rose. For a moment he wonders if he had left a dent from when the SUV hit him what seems like a century ago no. Wonders if there's any outward tangible sign he's more than a ghost other than his own perceptions... 

Rose opening the passenger side door and unhooking one of his hands startles him from his thoughts. Before he can react, Jackie is suddenly there, staring up at him. She stares into his eyes, like she's searching for something, but he's not sure what. When he tries to turn, she grabs his arm and finally says, "You keep an eye on my daughter. Keep her safe."

With the glare she's giving him and the way her nails are digging in even through his sleeve, the threat is implicit. He's not sure what she's expecting, doesn't even want to consider the possibilities what with everything he's seen so far in this strange world, but he catches her meaning. Narrowing his eyes, he returns her look, but nods. If that's what she expects, so be it. Not that he's even agreeing to and whether he'll regret it. Finally she says, "You'd better," but lets go, stepping away. Rose watches the exchange, saying nothing, her own expression stony.

As he gets in, which is awkwardly done because of the leg, she reattaches the other handcuff to the door handle and locks it before closing it firmly behind him. Surprised, he just stares. After what had just happened, he'd expected a modicum of trust. But then, he's not sure he faults her decision. He'd probably do the same, now that he thinks about it... Slipping back into his daze, he's not really paying attention while Rose bids her mum a tearful farewell after tossing the assortment of bags and suitcase in the back. He's too focused on the bit of steel around his arm and what it means. While it reminds him that yes, he's still more than a drifting non-entity — reminds him that indeed there is flesh and blood binding him with the scattered thoughts — it's still a harsh reality to which he's confronted. Part of him is telling him to run, to fight, do anything but simply accept this, while the rest has already given up. What's the point, when one cannot get much more caught than handcuffed to the door of the same SUV that once ran one down? 

The sky is already darkening, the clouds overhead taking on a darker steel grey tone. Most of an entire day has passed, though it seems much longer. He looks over at the woman beside him and wonders if she's feeling similarly. If so, she shows no signs of it, her face a carefully schooled mask of determination. Her expression isn't one that encourages questions or even conversation. Not that he would want meaningless chatter, but he'd quite like to know where he's going. As he opens his mouth to speak, she gives him a hard look as she starts the motor. Dismissing that idea, he settles in, glancing at the side mirror. Jackie is standing there, waving them a tearful goodbye. She stays there as they drive off in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

The rain starts as they cross the Tower Bridge, the first drops hitting the windscreen the only sound over the hum of the tyres against the macadam. Her passenger is quiet, enough that she can almost forget he's there. What with the Perception filter and all, it's even easier to do. If she squints, she can see him sitting partially slumped against the door, eyes flitting over everything they pass. From what she sees of his expression when she looks a bit harder, it varies between a forcibly bored look and naked anxiety every time she hits a pothole. She supposed it's the unexpected thumping sounds, though if he was anywhere near familiar with this version of London, he should expect them. 

He begins fidgiting as they pass Wapping, but says nothing. All she hears are the sounds of someone shifting restlessly, along with the occasional thump of a trainer against the floor. She can still feel his intense stare, and it's beginning to unnerve her, especially since when glimpsed from the corner of her eye he's just a faint blur. "Need a loo break already?" she asks as she changes lanes. 

 

Hesitating, he shifts again and she guesses from the sounds that he's trying to find a comfortable position for his leg. As it continues, she briefly wonders what his deal is before finally twigging on. Hurriedly she pulls into a Texaco and parks by the side of the building. A moment to quickly check her gauges and see she's got enough Petrol to get her at least to Ware. Or at least she hopes she does and that it can wait. She just wants to get out of the city as soon as possible, before disaster has a chance to strike. As if getting posted to the Dales isn't enough of one. 

Getting out, she goes around to dig through her rucksack that she'd tossed in the back. It's easier to see him with contact, she discovers when she touches his arm to catch his attention. "Sorry, mate," she says in chagrin as she hands him a couple pills out of the bottle she'd retrieved. He dry swallows the tabs and waves a hand, dismissing her apology. His eyes carry no resentment, but quickly dart to the side to avoid her own. His thoughts on the matter are unreadable, leaving him just as much of a puzzle as ever. For a moment she debates before handing him the bottle, figuring she'll trust him enough not to swallow the entire lot in one go. 

His eyes meet hers then, full of surprise as she presses it into his hand. There's a pause before his fingers close around it gently, and he mumbles a soft, 'thank you'. But he doesn't look away this time, instead he watches her for a moment, plainly trying to figure her out. What ever he's been thinking, her trusting him this much has surprised him. Enough that she catches a glimpse of what she suspects is relief as he visibly relaxes. For that she almost envies him. Especially since she's tetering on the edge of giving in to her own anxieties and the urge to scream in frustration.

But once they're back on the road, he resumes that tense silence, a careful look showing that once again he's studying everything they pass. It's almost like he's either planning an escape route or doesn't expect to see anything of the sort ever again. Then again, considering where they're heading, both of them will be lucky if they see more than sheep and empty moors for the next decade. With little chance of escape unless she comes up with a clever idea. It's all just bloody fantastic, innit? 

But no, she's not going to think about that. No, she's going to keep herself focused on the directions from the GPS and carefully avoid thinking about their destination. She's going to focus on the traffic and trying to keep them from both getting killed by some idiot driver. Like the one who has just cut off the lorry ahead of her. When she loudly expresses her disbelief that the knob was even qualified to operate a spoon, the man makes a startled noise and she can imagine him giving her one of those wide eyed looks. She can already imagine the expression he'll have when he sees... Nope, she's focusing on the directions. The ones Pete had gotten someone to send over — which is good that he did, since she's not got a bloody clue where she's driving, other than the middle of nowhere, Yorkshire. Of all places, Yorkshire. Why her mum even thought of that, she couldn't begin to guess, but she suspects Pete put her up to it. That would be just like him, honestly, wouldn't it just? Which only serves to make her wonder what he's got planned. At any rate, whatever it is won't be affecting the bloke beside her. Who, from the lack of sounds coming from that direction, is asleep by the time she gets on the A10 in Enfield, she notices. Typical. He's not even going to be a fit distraction to keep her from the unending spiral of anger and resentment she feels herself falling into. 

 

It's not a surprise when the Shadow Architect herself beams down that afternoon. While he's currently in between meetings, Pete is still pressed for time. He's got the Ministry of Defense wanting a full briefing in 26 minutes, and he doesn't hesitate to tell the tall, pale figure exactly so. Despite her enraged look, that is. 

While he was expecting her sharp tone, the content of her first words are completely unexpected. "From the readings on our scanners, there is no one onboard that ship," she says, barely concealing her rage. "I demand you turn the fugitive over immediately."

Slightly surprised, Pete blinks, but quickly recovers. Knowing that the best outcome is rarely the actual one, he'd suspected something like this from the moment he'd been awakened by the alert that the TARDIS had finally been located. After all, it was the TARDIS, and just like the one who'd built her, she attracted trouble and chaos like flies to a rubbish heap. But no, the fact that the Shadow Architect is here, giving him an accusatory look like she expects he's personally to blame for this situation, is rather galling. Leaning back in his chair, Pete gives her a level look, letting his demeanor show his displeasure at her not-so-subtle meaning. "Considering he attacked several of my personnel in numerous escape attempts before we called you in, what makes you even think we'd be inclined to try hiding him?" 

The Architect steps closer, her long black and white robes sweeping the floor. She eyes him with distaste as she says bluntly, "You and your kind have a habit of being either too lenient or extraordinarily too cruel when it comes to dealing with those who transgress against the rule of law. You also have a tendency to attempt to thwart our rule of law, thinking your own planet is a rule unto itself, instead of merely a part of a wider Universe over which we are the ultimate authority."

"How do you know he's here and not running loose inside your own vaults?" Pete asks, going for what seemed like the most obvious question. "After all, you have custody of the ship and her contents." He knows what the security footage from the entire park where the TARDIS landed shows. Knows that there was no way that many cameras could have been tampered with. Even the footage of the ship itself showed the doors had never even opened, not even a crack. They had to know this, since the Judoon themselves had been here this morning to retrieve all the evidence for themselves. 

"Of course he's not 'running about' our vaults. We pumped them full of a gas specifically poisonous to your species. Am I to assume that you are declaring yourselves to be unwilling to cooperate with us, and therefore are going to need treating as a hostile entity? It would not reflect well upon you or your planet."

Noting the implicit threat, Pete quickly deflects, cursing inwardly. Sitting forward, he says in a softer tone,"Not at all, Madam, it just will take a lot of manpower and time to implement such a search. I have no intention of thwarting your authority in the least, believe me. As you have made it clear, the Shadow Proclamation's word is law. Especially in this case. I shall contact all other earthly authorities and have a search started. Within reason, since the man has no known connections here and was last known to be recovering from injury."

"Forget 'reason', and see that it is done," she says imperiously, staring down at him with contempt. 

Seething inside, Pete forces a smile. "As you wish, madam." He can thoroughly and completely understand why the Doctor hated this lot. An utter shower of bastards, especially this one, he thinks. 

"I will send a platoon of Judoon to assist," she says finally before suddenly blinking out. 

Calling down to his secretary, Gladys, he gives her the list of offices and agencies to notify, as well as ordering her to send out the full information packet to all of the above. Notifications and warnings will be broadcast on all radio stations and television channels in the Republic. He's also mentally rewriting the script for the scheduled briefing with the MOD in — a glance at his watch— 17 minutes. He calls Jake to be the dedicated liaison between Torchwood and Scotland Yard. As for the Military, particularly UNIT, he'll handle those himself. 

When he's finished, with merely 6 minutes to spare before he has to leave his office and catch the lift down to the conference room two floors below, he takes a moment to breathe. As his gaze wanders to ths window, he pauses, noting that the leaden skies reflect his own mood. The migraine that had been threatening earlier is beginning to start in full. Working its way to a constant throbbing at his temples, it's starting to become an unwanted distraction. As he digs around in his desk drawer for an aspirin, he realises that things could be worse. Indeed, he can be grateful that Jackie miraculously managed to convince Rose to leave the city. She's better off out of this mess entirely.

 

"Does your friend have a history of unexpectedly missing obligatory meetings, or otherwise going off on his own without telling anyone?" the policewoman repeats in a bored tone. 

"I hardly see how it matters!" Richard nearly shouts in exasperation. This is the second time he's explained this, each time getting a worrying lack of concern from the police. "While he's occasionally got a habit of wandering off into the woods and forgetting what day it is, it's not like he did that this time. He'd not have just dropped his mobile in that alley and then run off to the Yukon for no reason."

"And as you said before, he does have a history of being unpredictable?" she continues, calmly making notes in her book.

"Yes, but not like this—" he sputters. He doesn't understand why they're not taking this more seriously, especially since Till had a damned bodyguard for a reason. A hundred different scenarios have already gone through his mind, dozens of different possibilities, each worse than the last. But no, here's the police, still implying that Till was had gone off of his own volition. 

"I'll take this in, have it processed and analysed. Please call us if he turns up."Closing her notebook suddenly, the policewoman continues in the same abrupt, business-like tone, "If he does fail to contact you within the next 48 hours, do feel free to file a further report." She gives them a terse nod and promptly walks out, ignoring Richard and Paul's protests. 

"She's right, you know," Schneider says softly from his place by the window. "This is something he'd do. Remember what we had to go through just to get him to carry one in the first place?" 

"Yeah but still—" Richard shakes his head, doubtful. "If he dropped his phone there, why would he just turn around and leave? He obviously made it that far." Settling back into the sofa, he throws his arms over his head and stares at the ceiling in frustration. All those nightmarish possibilities are running wild again and even Paul coming over to sit on the other end of the sofa. 

"He could have run off to buy a new one, considering after the last time he lost his phone and you practically tore him a new one," he offers hopefully. 

He remembers that, and now feels guilty, too. But no, it didn't fit. Till would have come in and said something, probably would have been laughing and making jokes about it, too. Would have said he'd finally discovered a new way to get some peace and quiet. He'd not have just disappeared into thin air if that had been what really transpired. Shaking his head, Richard dismisses the idea. "No, something else went on. I know it."

"At least they seem to be taking this slightly more seriously now," Schneider adds, looking worried. "Especially since they weren't so inclined when Ollie tried."

They're all lost in thought when Flake comes into the room, followed by Oliver. Neither expresse any surprise when the others tell them the results of the visit from the police. "I told you they'd not be overly concerned unless there was blood found," Ollie reminds them with a frown. "Until then..."

"We wait until he comes back, or calls," Flake says reluctantly, frowning as he settles into a chair. Paul sighs and shakes his head, agreeing softly. There's no trace of his usual smile when he exchanges a grim look with Flake.

"Or we start asking around, ourselves," Schneider suggests. Everyone looks up, faces showing varying degrees of worry and concern as well as frustration at the ineffectiveness of trying to contact the police. "We all know enough people," he continues. "Plus there's the fans. If we put something on the website, tell them he's missing, there'll be a thousand pictures on a half dozen websites within the hour and a few hundred people leaving messages to say exactly where he is."

Richard shakes his head, thinking that it's too much too soon. If by some chance Till has actually gone 'missing' by choice for some reason, them putting an all points bulletin out is just going to rile him up. "He'll hate it, all the gossip that would cause. Then the press will jump in, there'll be stories in every tabloid before dawn, and it'll be a disaster."

"And what if it already is a disaster? A real one, not just a bit of a flap in the news for a day or two. What then?" Oliver adds, looking worried. 

"And there's a chance it might work, you know," Paul says, grimacing at his own words. He doesn't like the idea any better, but if the police aren't willing to do more than say 'call back if he doesn't return', what choice do they have? "Till might not like it, but if something has happened to him, that'll be the least of his concerns. Otherwise..."

"Call it just punishment for being late, again," Flake supplies.

 

 

_Ignoring the chill of the air, he adjusts his goggles before slipping into the pool. An occasional soft splash and the soft susurrus of his own breathing are the only sounds as he glides through the water as he starts doing laps. His muscles warm quickly as he settles into a steady rhythm of pull, kick, pull. No one else is here at this early hour, just as he likes it. It's a blessedly short reprieve from the rest of the world; no fans clamouring for attention, no record label reps asking for updates, no bandmates saying the lyrics need editing again... No, it's just him and the water, alone at last._

_Sinking into a state of peaceful mindlessness, he doesn't notice when the cement walls of the pool fade away and the chlorinated water morphs into the murky green depths of a pond. Nor does he notice the reeds that suddenly rise around him, twining themselves around his limbs. Easily pliant and teasing one moment, they quickly tighten and become like steel bands around him. Suddenly ensnared, he tries to break free, only to find more wrapping tight around him. It's like they're alive, sentient, and are now intent on dragging him down into the darkness that waits below. The more he thrashes and struggles to break free, the more he's caught. One is wrapped tightly across his chest, while another holds his hand fast and he can feel the burning in his lungs as they begin screaming for air...._

Waking with a muffled shout, he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings. As he gasps for air, he realises that it's only a safety belt across his chest. A safety belt and a handcuff securing him to the door of a car....

"You okay, mate?" The blonde girl is glancing at him with concern, not watching the road. She's squinting at him, eyes focused off to the left of where he is. Briefly he wonders about the quality of her eyesight before remembering that strange key she'd hung around his neck. 

Wordlessly he points at the back of a lorry they're getting too close to, but of course she doesn't notice. He's cursing the existence of the filter thing he has to wear, even as he's watching the other vehicle getting even more worryingly close. "Watch out—" he nearly shouts, forcing the words out just before they collide and she easily steers clear, swearing under her breath. 

"Sorry about that," she adds after she calms down a few moments later. "You're going to have to speak up if you need something, on account of you're a bit hard to see."

As for him, he's busy clinging to whatever he can, unnerved at how close death had come creeping by with unwanted reminders of his mortality. The bottle of pills is still in his hand, clenched tightly as he slowly calms down. For a moment, he considers taking a couple just to escape from reality for a little longer. At least he'd be unconscious if they did get into a firy wreck. But no, he's got reasons to stay awake, especially after how he woke up. Especially since he's sure he'd probably dream of fire if he did sleep, just with cars and lorries added in this time. He's still not sure how much is his lost memories trying to come back and how much is merely a symptom of being in this crazy world. After everything he's seen here, it's probably to be expected. Drop a teacup often enough and eventually it'll shatter. Not that he's a teacup, but still... Now he's starting to worry at the pattern of his own thoughts, because he's getting close to errupting in hysterical laughter that he fears will end what little sanity he's got remaining. 

Right about now he'd give anything for a drink, hell the entire bottle would be nice. No, it'd be fucking perfect. He could drink until either everything makes sense or he's no longer capable of telling the difference. Unfortunately, he's not even got a bottle of water, much less anything that'll reduce him to a state of unconsciousness. Other than the pills... but no, he can't. 

Resolving to stay awake, he sits straighter and forces himself to focus on his surroundings. It's even darker out than when he fell asleep and the rain is still pissing down. He's not sure he's seen so much rain in all his life, and can't remember the last time he's actually seen the sun, even through a window. "Where are we?" he asks, hoping it won't distract his driver too badly. 

"Just passed Harewood," Rose says after a pause, watching the road more carefully now. The name doesn't sound at all familiar to his ears. "You've slept through everything else. Including when I stopped for petrol. Grabbed you a bacon sarnie," she adds, motioning at a plastic wrapped package on the fascia. 

Grateful, he grabs it and eats without looking, afterwards realising he'd not even noticed being hungry. After a steady diet of porridge and other bland food at that Torchwood place, everything tastes good, including this. Even if the bread is slightly stale and the bacon has long gone cold and a bit rubbery, it's still the best thing he's eaten in most of the time he can remember. Not even the crumbs go uneaten, and after he folds the wrapper back up, uncertain of where to put it. There's an assortment of rubbish scattered about on the floor by his feet, but he doesn't want to be rude. Nor does he want to ask and possibly distract her again. Instead, he continues to hold it, and goes back to looking out at the other traffic. 

Careful to not let himself be lulled into another daze by the hum of tyres and the sound of rain, he studies the little bit he can see. It's mostly just the dim outline of other vehicles, or distant lights shining in the darkness. Traffic is thinning out, meaning they're probably heading into a less populated area. Again he regrets sleeping, because now he's really got no clue where they are, or how long he's been out. Not that it'd help much, the only thing that seemed vaguely familiar was the first bridge they'd crossed, way back in London. He's pretty sure he has seen that bridge somewhere before, and not just as a picture in a book or on television. No, he's been there before. Long ago, in literally another world, he'd been there, under vastly different circumstances. This much he knows. But shying away from that thought, he distracts himself by counting the lights and the times Rose curses at the stupidity of the others on the road.

Despite his efforts, he's almost worked himself into another trance when Rose decides to turn the radio on. The words come nearly too fast for his tired ears to catch all of them, but he catches a mention of more rain in the coming week, with a risk of flooding, and then something about London. That catches his attention and he forces himself to actually listen. 

_"Scotland Yard is asking everyone to keep on the look out for a man who's 6 foot tall, dark hair, heavy set, and roughly 45 to 60 years of age. May speak little to no English, with an accent. They warn he could be armed and dangerous, and is currently wanted by all authorities..."_

A chill goes down his neck. He knows they're referring to him, even if the description is a bit wrong. "Meinen sie—"he starts, momentarily forgetting that she won't understand him otherwise. Also that he's ironically living up to the words on the radio. "Do they mean me?"

Just the look on her face was enough to tell him it was. Rose is gripping the steering wheel, a slight frown crossing her face as she mutters angrily, "The bastard. I knew there was a reason he sent mum over. I bloody knew it."

Flinching at the anger in her words, he pulls back and tries to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. He's caught enough from her tone and expressions to know she's bearing a lot of resentment and already feels badly for having inconvenienced her so. She's not said where they're going, but he's clever enough to know it's somewhere for his own safety. Hers as well, since she's likely to find herself in trouble if she's caught with him. That thought alone is enough to make him cringe. When he'd escaped that room, he'd only wanted to go find someone who might know him. He hadn't meant for this, any of this, to happen. Instead, he's now on the run to God knows where with a reluctant companion. A companion who'd be back at home doing her own thing, living her own life, if she'd only made the decision to reply to her colleagues when he'd turned up in the middle of her apartment. Worse, he doesn't see any way out of this. Not unless he can manage to slip away and go far enough away that she'll be safe if he's caught.

Still the radio drones on, but he's not paying attention, neither is Rose. She's now put on some sort of headset, listening to that carefully. Obviously she thinks the radio will somehow entertain him. It's not. Fortunately it's not much longer before they are turning onto a narrower, less travelled road. Their vehicle is the only one in sight as it twists and loops gradually and steadily uphill. The potholes are worse, and the driving slower as the wind begins to blow. It's almost at a gale when they drive into a village, the sudden appearance of lights startling him. 

Everything outside is just a rain-streaked blur, and he can barely make out the sign when Rose suddenly stops. He's about to ask why they're at a coffee shop when Rose dashes out into the downpour without a word. The motor is left running, much to his confusion. As he is left wondering what's going on, he's half tempted to see if he can break free from the cuffs when she comes back. Resembling a drowned rat after just her short time out in the weather, she merely puts the car back in gear and gets back onto the road. 

A short time later, they're pulling off onto an even narrower one. The bumps get worse, and the macadam is more patchy, but that's nothing compared to the next one she turns on to. That one's bare dirt and has ruts that threaten to take out the silencer and everything else underneath. Hedges line the lane that gets narrower as they go, enough that if they met another vehicle someone would have to back up. All the constant jarring and jostling isn't exactly comfortable either. Gritting his teeth, he stays silent, but is very relieved when they finally stop. 

Rose sighs, takes off the headset and turns off the motor. Sitting there in the darkness, the sound of rain and wind is overwhelming. He'd briefly glimpsed the blurry shape of a small building, but hasn't an idea of what it is. Or if this is their intended destination. There's no lights on and it's too dark to see if there's any identifying landmarks around. Realising that he could be just about anywhere now, he waits with bated breath. While he's hoping for an explanation, all he gets is Rose finally saying, "Wait here."

She grabs a bag from the back before disappearing into the night again, and once again he's waiting. He sees lights come on and then she's back, moving as fast as she can to open the door and to his surprise, uncuffing him. He's finally free, even if he's doubtful of the occasion. For a moment he hesitates, before she urges him on impatiently. Putting the small bottle of pills in the pocket of his jacket, he slowly slides his feet out and stands on legs gone stiff. He stands there, letting his balance recover while trying to ignore the aches that have built up over the hours of riding. 

Meanwhile the wind lashes at him as the downpour soaks through his clothes almost immediately. Cold air and water start leaching the warmth from him, and plasters his hair to his face. But it's actually refreshing, something he had not thought he would get to feel again. He'd half expected her to change her mind and turn back after realising that going this far to protect a stranger is beyond foolhardy. For some unfathomable reason she hadn't, and hasn't, though he reckons she's still got time. A sudden buffet of wind makes him sway slightly, catching him off guard as it brings him back to the moment. Then Rose is tugging at his arm; the back door of the car is open and she's glaring at him. She's even more wet than she was before. He can see her lips move, but the wind catches her words before they reach his ears. It reminds him of how it was before, what was for him only a few short weeks ago.

"Grab your stuff and get a move on. I don't exactly want to drown out here, mate," she repeats in exasperation, still struggling to be heard over the storm. Feeling abashed, he does as told, even grabs the large, heavy suitcase that was remaining in there and carries it easily as he follows her into the darkness. 

Even with the lights shining from the windows, the cottage is easy to miss. With a doorway that is low enough that he has to duck his head to get through it, and inside the ceilings inside are mere centimeters above his head. But it's dry, and there's light enough to see by. Almost too much. Squinting at the brightness, he quickly takes in his surroundings before setting down the suitcase. Narrow hallway ahead, leading to other rooms, white plastered walls with dark trim, scuffed up wooden floors. Beyond the entranceway there's a number of equally low doorways, one leading to a small, slightly rundown kitchen and another to a bathroom. There's no signs of anyone else being here, no other tenants or homeowners coming to greet them. Instead, the blonde leads him further down the narrow hallway, pausing to look in one door and then the other. Nodding, she pushes him towards the one on the right. 

"That one is yours. Bathroom's back there on the left," Rose says gruffly before disappearing into the other doorway across from the one that's apparently 'his', leaving him standing there. 

Apprehensive at what he's going to find, he turns the knob and steps in. It's dark, unsurprisingly, and he feels around on the wall for a light switch. When it comes on, his eyes are met by a small room with a bed against one wall near a window, and an old chest of drawers with a mirror against another. There's an iron radiator with peeling paint beside it, and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust, including the bed. He's got the impression that wherever this is, no one's lived here in a long time. But at least there's blankets and a roof. Plus he's not actually locked in nor restrained. He's just soaking wet and starting to feel chilled. 

Setting down the bags, he places the bottle of pills on the small side table beside the bed. He then spreads his jacket over the radiator and hopes it'll dry then wipes himself off as best he can with the few parts of his shirt that hadn't gotten wet from his brief time out in the storm. The rest of his clothes he lays over the top of the chest of drawers as he quickly shucks them off. Fortunately, the new clothes hadn't gotten wet between the SUV and here, and he pulls them on gratefully. He's still cold, but the radiator is making ticking noises which give him hope. 

Limping over to the bed, he flops down, happy to be able to stretch out again. It may be dusty, the linens might be stale and more than slightly damp, but he doesn't care. His leg doesn't either, nor does his back, since he's no longer having to sit in a contorted position just to accommodate a leg that doesn't bend. Which reminds him, he thinks before heaving himself over. Pulling up his trouser-leg, he undoes the brace. It's the first time he's seen the scars, or the damage. The view is enough to make him wince, especially at the amount of swelling that still surrounds the joint. He grits his teeth and lifts his leg as he tries to bend it. It only goes so far, just a few milimeters at most before something inside pulls and catches. That's definitely a no. Especially since it immediately starts throbbing after. Laying back with a sigh, he realises he's not going to be up for running a long time. Despite his earlier thoughts on the matter, he might have to stay here for awhile just to allow himself to heal more. 

Wherever here actually was.


	10. Chapter 10

While her mum had reassured her that the place was going to be fine, and even though she'd talked to the woman on the phone, when she'd gone into the coffee shop to pick up the keys to the cottage she'd still had her doubts. More so when the woman had started gushing on about how she'd not expected anyone to take up the offer on her dad's old place after three years. And despite her new landlady's reassurances about sending "her Charlie" over to get the boiler on, it was still half a surprise to find there actually was heat. Even if the boiler was obviously struggling and the place was drafty as hell, as well as very visibly having sat empty for the last three years. As the amount of dust and the stale feeling would attest to. But... it had walls and a roof, and furthermore, it wasn't like she could have tried sneaking wotsisname into a hotel or anything. It's not like there's a lot of other options in the area for housing available on short notice, she tells herself. At there is a backlog of cases that the local police had been begging for Torchwood's assistance on that should keep her mind off worrying about how she's going to actually keep him concealed, while trying to figure out exactly how he'd done what he's still insisting he didn't do. 

After checking the internet to see if there's any local takeaways that deliver (there aren't) she's realising they should have stopped somewhere for something. It's early enough in the evening that she'll be beyond famished before morning and she can imagine he would be too. The only option is for her to run back into the village and grab a couple of the sarnies she'd seen listed on the menu board there. She knocks on the door to the room she'd told him to take, before quickly opening the door. For a moment it had occured to her that he could have already taken the opportunity to escape, and she's got visions of having to chase him over the moor in the rain. Which are blessedly not reflected by reality, as he's merely lying on the bed and watching the rain against the glass of the window.

For a moment he doesn't hear seem to hear her, eyes squinted as he tries to look outside despite the darkness, his face surprisingly relaxed. A rumble of thunder comes, along with a hefty gust of wind that rattles the glass and the ghost of a smile briefly flits across his face. As she watches him, she forgets for the first time in hours that he's more than an inconvenient mystery that she's had almost literally dropped in her lap. Instead she remembers that he's just some poor bloke who's so far out of his depths that he's beyond lost. Seeing him reach out a large hand to trace the patterns of falling water, she wonders who he really is, and who he'd left behind. There's a world out there where someone knows him, a world where there's probably people searching frantically for him, and she wishes there was a way to let them know he's still alive, and that he's safe, for now. 

Either her reflection or the movement as she steps back out of the room catches his eye and he turns. No longer looking peaceful, he eyes her warily, shifting to his side and then half sitting with one leg reaching for the floor. She notices he's got the brace off, eyes catching the scars and swelling and winces for his sake. It's got to be painful still, and he's barely complained once. With the brace off, she can't even imagine him being able to stand, much less walk on it.

"Just thought I'd let you know I was going into town, gonna grab us something for tea, yeah?" she says hurriedly, trying to reassure him. 

The watchful look of his doesn't disappear entirely, just becomes more resigned as he mutely holds out his wrists. Approaching him, she notes the way his lips press into a firm line, apathy morphing into something much harder. One of his wrists is bigger than both of her own combined. The fact that he's been letting her push him around, even with the threat of a gun is almost a miracle. But here he is now, almost challenging her to try it again. She can almost guarantee there'd be a fight if she tries, one that she'd probably not win. But she's not come to provoke him. 

"It's okay, yeah? Figure you can manage on your own for a bit," she says softly. "D'you need anything?" She looks around, notices the bottle of tabs on the small dresser, as well as the wet clothes he's got scattered about to dry. He might not have a clue where he is, or what's going on, but he's not absolutely hopeless. Treating him like a child or a prisoner isn't going to help. Especially if she hopes to win his trust enough to find out what else happened on that ship. 

His shoulders drop slightly, and he relaxes slightly before shaking his head. "No, danke," he rumbles in a surprisingly soft voice. He glances away then, restlessly pulling his trouser leg down to cover the exposed knee. A tinge of pink shows on his ears as he fidgets slightly, seemingly not sure where to look or what else to say. 

She doesn't either, so quickly makes her escape. She could have asked about food allergies and the like, but knows that he's got no more of a clue than she does. She can't remember seeing any notes in the files she'd read, no mention of bad reactions to anything they'd fed him back at Canary Wharf, other than a lack of appetite when it came to porridge. Not that he's shown one since. 

Unfortunately, the coffee shop has closed for the night by the time she manages to drive back. There's a small pub called the Ram's Head across the way, at least. The place is nearly empty, only a few patrons sitting there in various stages of drunkenness. They're all watching her, clearly unused to seeing anyone new, but she ignores them and smiles at the barkeeper instead. Shepherd's pie is on offer, as well as ale, so she orders two servings to go, and tries to ignore all the eyes upon her. 

"Up seeing the sights?" The barkeeper asks. He's a wiry sort, with ginger hair on the retreat from a narrow forehead. His apron is surprisingly clean, as well as the rest of the pub. 

"You could say that. On assignment from Torchwood," she says quietly, trying not to give her inevitable audience too much of an earful. She knows they're all listening in, but figures they can work for their gossip.

Clearly surprised, the barkeeper is silent for a moment, nodding as he says, "It's about bloody time. Thought they'd forgotten we even exist. The disappearances have only been going on for the last ten years." 

She almost apologises, but realises it's not her fault. Also knows that if it wasn't for the fact she's got one of Earth's most wanted tucked up in the spare bedroom back at the cottage, she'd not be within 100 miles of here. "We're here now," she says smoothly, giving him a bland smile. 

It's only 15 minutes before the food is brought out in several polystyrene containers, along with some paper serviettes and some plastic folks. Relieved to be getting away from all the wondering eyes, she pays before quickly leaving. The rain is still pissing down as hard as ever, as she wishes she'd thought of bringing an umbrella as she juggles the containers awkwardly while opening her car door. It's enough that the wipers can barely keep up on the way back, forcing her to drive even slower. At one point she sees something moving across the road ahead, something low and heavy set. It's gone before she can identify it, slipping between the gaps in the hedges and she hopes it was a sheep. It was far too large for a hare or even a badger. She can't imagine what else they've got up here but with the mentioned disappearances, she can only imagine. All the files and reports had been emailed to her, but she's not yet had the chance to read them. Probably should do that tonight, she thinks as she pulls in in front of the cottage. If I can keep manage to focus that long.

The heating hasn't really made much of a difference, she notes as she shrugs her coat off and hangs it on the hook behind the door. It's not much warmer inside than out, and she's wishing she'd packed her heavy jumper. As she starts walking down the hallway, she hears sounds from the lounge that she's no more than glanced at. To her surprise, it's occupied. He's not only left his room, he's discovered the television and the ratty, old sofa and is sprawled out watching the News At Ten broadcast. Even from the doorway she can see the Judoon on the small, dusty screen. The newsreader comes on, a picture of her guest shown in the upper corner. She can only imagine what he's thinking right now, seeing this. 

 

It's surreal, seeing his own face on television, more so than hearing the news broadcast on the radio had been earlier. He recognises some of the Torchwood agents at the press briefing immediately, especially the one who'd been his guard. What grabs his attention and holds it fast, though, is the two giant creatures flanking those agents. They're giant rhinos, walking on two legs. His eyes don't even want to believe it, he wants to discount it as merely another sign he's losing his mind. Hallucinations are certainly a sign of such. But no, everyone on television is reacting to them: consciously moving carefully around them and nervously watching the beings from the corners of their eyes while pretending not to. Either he's gone nuts or everyone else on this verdammt Planet has. He's not made up his mind yet. It could be either. 

Or both.

"That's the Judoon," Rose suddenly says from beside him, startling him. He'd not expected her back yet. Must have lost track of the time somehow, but there she is with food containers in hand. She hands him one, as well as a little plastic forks, before motioning him to make room. As he sits up carefully, she plops down beside him and begins to eat. A small cloud of dust rises, but she doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't care beyond the fact it reminds him of that shed, the TARDIS thing everyone's all upset about, and it brings it back. Makes everything so much more horrifyingly real. 

Appetite, completely fled, he stares down at the container in his hands because he can't stand to look at the television any more. Seeing those creatures, so terrifyingly real and visibly hostile enough that those who are purportedly in league with them are afraid of them.... and now knowing what they are for certain, it's only making it worse. For some inexplicable this is real, all of it. He doesn't know why or how, or even what he did to somehow deserve this, but it's definitely real. Even running seems like a doubtful plan. After all, there's giant, fucking space rhinos hunting for him and he's not sure hiding is even going to help. He glances over and wonders why she's doing this. Wonders why she'd even care about some random stranger. Knows he's not worth the risk. But he can't find the words to tell her. She's a beautiful woman and could do far better things with her time than babysitting old men with bad legs. Instead he sits there, continuing to awkwardly hold the container, unsure of what to do with it. 

He's unsure of so very many things lately. Enough that it almost hurts when he thinks about it. Inevitably he does, and tenses, trying to find something, anything else to think of. The wallpaper is rather fascinating, what with the water stains off setting the pattern of flowers that is rather abhorrent on its own....

Unfortunately, she quickly notices he's not eating. "You ok?"

For a moment he freezes. Thinks of a hundred different things he could say, ranging from denial to trying to change the topic. Pretending he's too tired to try communicating in English is also an option. But no, she's watching him with earnest worry in her eyes. He can't. Shaking his head, he really can't find it in himself to lie, not after everything she's done. "You can't do this," he manages before he loses track of what exactly he means to say. 

A raised eyebrow. "Do what?" 

All the words he can come up with are ones she'd not understand, which definitely wouldn't help any. "Dieses—" he starts as he waves a hand about dramatically, before stopping. Wrong language. Now he has to go over the correct words again, making sure they're in the right order. "Risking everything," he mutters, finally setting the food aside and burying his head in his hands. As he tries to piece the words together, everything from when he first woke up under that hedge starts coming back at once and he feels like he's drowning. Stifling his own feelings, he looks up and spits out as quickly as he can, "They'll come for me. If they find you, know what you have done.... just let me go. You don't even know me, I'm no one. You have a life," before rattling to a stop because he's not even sure if she can understand him. Not with the way she's staring at him. "Just call them, tell them you found me. Say you captured me— I'll tell them you did. You can go home then, ja? Nur lass mich gehen...." 

But her look of confusion becomes one of outrage as she sputters, "Are you bloody mad?!"

He nods enthusiastically, trying to encourage her idea. "See? More reason—"

"I'm not turning you in! Christ, have you that much of a bloody death-wish going, mate?" She's set aside her own food, so she can grab his shoulders and try to shake him. He's almost amused by her efforts. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

It's frustrating. He's trying to get her to save herself, make her realise that going to this much effort for some random stranger isn't worth it, but no, now she's getting mad at him. "Why would you care? I stole your box thing...." 

"Because I can't just sit by and let them execute the only possible witness to what possibly caused all the recent rift activity, much less the only possible clue to how the TARDIS managed to take off like that with you inside," she yells, giving him another shake, ineffectual as it is.

Wincing at both her tone and her words, he pulls away and stands, managing to keep his weight off his bad leg. Now he wishes he'd put the brace back on, but earlier he'd figured he'd be safe enough, he'd not be going far.... 

"Oi, don't even think about it, Mister." She follows him, grabs him by the arm and pulls him around with more strength than he's expecting, nearly making him fall. Barely keeping his balance, he shifts his weight and ignores the sudden, sharp stab of agony in his knee. 

"Was—" he starts, the pain fueling his annoyance, only to be interrupted again. 

"Whatever you're thinking, don't. I know you don't like it, and God knows I'd take you home in a heartbeat if I could, but that's not happening. And neither is you running off to get yourself killed, yeah? I don't know how you survived, because you shouldn't have. You came through that Void without a bit of shielding, and somehow survived not only that, but falling through the rift. And since everyone else seems to have forgotten that bit, I haven't. Because somehow, besides all that, there's a tear between worlds that's leaking into the rift, and no one's got a clue what caused it. And somewhere, deep in here"— she reaches up and taps the side of his head— "is the explanation."

He pulls away, easily detaching her grip on his arm and eyes her warily. He hadn't thought of that, though he's wondered 'why me' several times. While before he was worried about what would happen to her, and why she'd be so altruistic, now he wonders if this means he's done for if he does remember. If it's only the information she's after... "Na, und?" he demands, folding his arms. "And if I don't remember?"

Rose pauses, staring up at him. For a moment he sees anger and determination, but nothing more. Then she shrugs, a look of worry crossing her face. "Then you don't," she says simply. Turning away she goes back to sit, picking up her food. "You should eat. And stop trying to pretend you didn't hurt yourself just now."

The absurdity hits him then. He's a grown man being pushed about by a woman half his size, trying to hide the fact that yes, his knee really was hurting now, and she'd seen through all his bluster. He has to admire the fact that she's not in the least bit afraid of him, even if it's also frustrating. His sudden laugh startles her, her expression saying that she thinks he's lost his mind. At least she's not wrong on that part. But if she thinks he's going to start telling her everything that comes back or even try forcing himself to remember.... No, he's going to be more watchful from now on. And more careful about what he says.

 

 

It's nearly midnight by the time he gets home. All he wants before bed is a glass of whiskey and the chance to sit down in a dark room and not have to speak to anyone. These are reasonable desires, especially since most people are abed at this hour. Unfortunately, he's not so fortunate, since his wife is sitting up waiting for him. At least she's thoughtful enough to have his drink ready and waiting. Laphroaig, no ice, just as he likes it. As grateful as he is, he's already waiting and wondering what she's still awake for. He doesn't have long to wait.

"Don't you think this has gone too far, Pete?" 

Sipping from his glass and wincing at the burn, he raises an eyebrow. "Too far?"

"Getting the Judoon involved and all. I got stopped and searched three times on the way back from town today — three times!"

Sighing, he pauses to swallow before saying, "I know it's a bit of an inconvenience, love, but—"

"Bugger the inconvenience," Jackie snaps. "It's bullshit and you know it. That poor bloke didn't do a bloody thing and now you're just going to hand him over to the Judoon."

"I had reasons, Jacks." He's been telling himself this for weeks, has tried justifying it so many times. It doesn't appease his conscience much, but it's better than the alternative as he sees it. 

"To hell with your reasons, Peter Tyler. Imagine yourself some scared bloke who's not got a damned clue what's happened and suddenly has half the universe looking for him. Imagine you're already injured, can't remember anything, and are so utterly lost you'll never figure out which way is even up. What if it was you, and not him, yeah?" 

"Jacks, I had no choice. The Time Lords are already involved, since they somehow found out the ship has been active, and now they're demanding custody of the fugitive as well as that of the TARDIS. Said there's risk of the ship going feral or something, without some sort of intervention."

"And who said?" She's eyeing him suspiciously. But it's true. Hence why he'd wanted that drink, as well as the chance to begin processing everything from his last, unexpected meeting this evening.

"The Draconian Ambassador, he was there when the Time Lords turned up. Overheard the whole thing, then teleported herself in just before I left Canary Wharf. You already know what they'll do to get that ship, and they've already said if they can't find the fugitive, they're coming after Rose, since she's the only other living person the ship has ever responded to."

A look of fear crosses Jackie's face, as the colour drains from her cheeks at his words. "But that's just madness, what do they expect either of them will ever be able to do? Especially him, he probably doesn't even know what that bloody box is for! And, the ship just dropping him off like that..." 

She claps her hands over her mouth, looking absolutely horrified for a moment before forcing her expression back to one of determined outrage. It's too late, because he's not thick enough to miss that one. That migraine from earlier is beginning to come roaring back with a vengeance as he groans wearily, "What did you do, Jacks?"

"I've done nothing. No more than you told me to do, which was to convince Rose to go up North, like you said." She's giving him a defiant look, but he knows there's got to be far more to it than what she's said. It's not a hard one to figure out, especially since he's just paid six months lease on a cottage in the back of beyond Yorkshire, and knowing his wife and stepdaughter as he does, he knows his sudden suspicions are far from groundless. He closes his eyes and wishes for something stronger than whiskey. Like perhaps a mallet upside the skull. But no, he should have expected this. Between her and Rose, he bloody well should have expected this. "After all, Pete, there's no proof he's actually done anything," she's saying, standing over him and waving her finger in his face. "He could be just as gentle as a lamb, that one."

If he wasn't so tired, he'd laugh. She's as transparent as ever. "I've got a half dozen agents who can beg to differ on that one!"

"If someone was holding me hostage and then started pointing those damned guns at me, I'd be pretty well hacked off too! Please, just do something, it's all gone too far. Get rid of that lot and then Rose will be safe again. Let the Time Lords and all bicker on about who gets that ruddy box without us."

While she's got a point, he's not comfortable trusting someone blindly. Not anymore, at least, even if his wife is so inclined. "Jacks, we don't even know that he's actually innocent, or who he is—"

"Innocent until proven guilty, or did you forget that one?" Her glare could cut through steel, he felt. But she isn't wrong, he has been putting that thought out of his mind. "You're not going to use an innocent bloke as a sacrificial offering to keep the Shadow Proclamation and those ponces in funny hats occupied."

"Have you forgotten why exactly I had to get the Shadow Proclamation involved before? Or what I had to do to get the Time Lords from taking Rose then? If they'd had their way, they'd have used her to force a response from that ship. Just like they did with the Doctor, when he wouldn't just hand it over. And since they said there was no proper symbiotic whatever, the chances of the ship going rogue—"

"That's no excuse, Pete and you know it." Jackie has her arms crossed and is shaking her head, undeterred.

"And if the ship decides she's going to implode or map her insides on the outside, like that Coordinator or whatever he was said? They'd be all right back on our doorsteps again, and they'd definitely not be taking no for an answer, because they'd just take Rose with them, and blow up half the planet if we so much a resist." He just wishes she'd be reasonable, understand how tenous a situation this is. He's only trying to protect the bloody planet here, and now he's got his own wife and stepdaughter coming up with their own ideas.

Rolling her eyes, Jackie snorts. "As if that lot wouldn't lie just to get what they want. It's probably just another threat they've come up with. You said he's got amnesia, which means he probably couldn't even find the nearest Tesco if you wanted him to. As for what you're going to do, you're going to call the search off."

"The hell I will—" he starts.

"You will cos it's the right thing to do. Just get that lot off his trail somehow. Have you ever known anything to go right when dealing with all them? You said Torchwood was meant to protect us all from hostile aliens — what about him? What if he's just another victim in this, and the only chance at finding out who's responsible is that poor bloke. If he's dead, there goes your only lead," Jackie says, miming something disappearing into thin air. Despite the breeziness of the motions, she's still serious. The look in her eyes says she's not about to shift on this, not at all.

It's all too pat, too firmly said to make him think this is a spur of the moment thing, a sudden epiphany springing up during the evening while his wife waited for him to return home. No, Rose has definitely done something and he can just imagine what. All he knows is the bloke is definitely here, somewhere in England, and his wife and daughter know exactly where. Considering he's just paid six months' lease on a cottage in Yorkshire, he's got a pretty good idea. Which explains why Jackie was still awake and waiting, he notes to himself. Knowing that trying to pry the truth out of either of them yet would be futile, he just sighs and decides to pretend he's utterly clueless. He's got a choice: either prepare for whatever is probably going to be an utter shitshow shortly, or do his best to prevent one. If he does the later, and bulls his way in, it's going to turn into an entirely different shitshow. It's all beginning to make his eye twitch.

"Fine," he sighs. "I'll figure out something. But if anything happens, if it turns out he's got nefarious plans, we'll all be regretting this one," he adds firmly, a plan already starting to formulate in his mind.

Later that night, when everyone else is sleeping, he calls Jake. Despite the hour the man is fortunately awake and listens carefully as Pete tells him to send a trustworthy pair of agents to Storiths. No reports, complete radio silence unless told otherwise, and make sure she doesn't become aware of said surveillance. Watch Rose, but don't intervene unless absolutely necessary, keep no written reports. This conversation never happened, either. After that, he tells Jake to find a substitute amongst the unclaimed bodies at the city morgue and have Tosh and Malcolm deal with finding a way to fool the Judoon into thinking said unknown is a completely different unknown. One with an uncanny connection to the TARDIS— they've got enough DNA samples on hand to rig something, don't they? 

There's a pause on the line, before Jake finally says, "Something I should know, boss?" 

Pete smiles grimly, as he lies, "Nothing of great importance. Just making sure my ducks are indeed in a row."


	11. Chapter 11

Rain lashes against the window through the night, the occasional sudden gust of wind making it shudder against the frame. Letting his mind drift as he stares into the dark, he almost manages to avoid slipping into the depths of sleep. Pulling himself back to full wakefulness by moving his leg again, the sudden pain works better than any other stimulant could. He keeps it up until the growing light makes it so he can just barely glimpse the ceiling in the gloom. A sense of smug satisfaction at withstanding the urge for sleep means it catches him unaware and next he knows, _he's seated on a plane, surrounded by strangers gone pale faced in terror, as everything shakes and judders. Everything is canted forward, as the plane begins to nose dive. Around him the screams and wails begin. He's seated by a window and a glance outside shows the ground is quickly approaching. Too quickly — hence the wall of noise that dulls into muffled sobbing and whispered prayers as the oxygen begins to thin. His own ears ring with the jet's blaring alarms sounding the oncoming disaster as his heart beats like a trapped bird within his chest, a sea of forced calm as everyone else makes their peace with death. He wonders about those below, those who will not have time to say their goodbyes and will hopefully never know what's coming. He can almost envy them, in comparison to what those around him are suffering. There are some things is far better to never know, such as the moment and hour of one's death. As for him, he would probably be doing the same if he could find a reason to bother. Panicking won't make the engines work again, nor will weeping avert their date, but a last shot of tequila wouldn't go amiss._

 _He hopes too many of those below won't die, that the destruction won't be too great, and the pilots can manage to steer the plane away from the crowded city he saw below. If he closes his eyes he can almost see the flames, the twisted wreckage they're all soon to become. It's almost better than seeing the faces of his bandmates twisted in anguish and fear. He can't imagine what his own looks like. Everything tips back suddenly, and the screams begin anew as they begin to fall even faster..._ he lands on the floor with a thud, barely holding in a yell. 

Rose doesn't hold in her small shout of surprise, as she had been trying to wake him. As he tries to gather his wits, tries to remember where the hell he is, she's already gathered her composure. "I'm heading out," he manages to catch, along with, "No answering the door, and stay away from the windows, yeah?" There was probably more, but he's still trying to reassure himself that it was just a dream. Just a dream, he's not aboard a plane about to crash, everything is fine...

By the time he's managed to sit up, she's already left, the only sound that of the SUVs motor blending into the storm's wrath outside. Briefly he leans back against the side of the bed as he catches his breath, heart still pounding in his chest. There's no hope of sleeping again, and now he's got to piss. He feels around for the brace, and finds it's missing. Cursing, he realises she'd taken it while he was distracted, probably thinking that the leg itself and the weather weren't enough of a deterrent. No problem, he can manage without it. 

It's not easy, but he makes it in time, clinging to doorframes and walls along the way. Already in a sour mood, it takes him a frustrating amount of effort to get to the small kitchen, only to find it's largely empty, other than the mismatched furniture. Cupboards and refrigerator bare, only a few scattered utensils abandoned in one of the drawers, some dishes and cups tucked in another, and overall an air of disuse and abandonment. It's not exactly a top tier holiday resort, but at least it's not that hospital. Or even that hedge. Just looking out the window tells him that it's far worse than that night he woke up and soon found the world had gone mad around him. Torrents of water and low-lying fog obscures what little he can see of a leaden sky and hills turned brown with winter's coming chill. For a moment he stares, trying to place it within the context of anything familiar, before the ache in his leg stirs him to seek the bottle of pills he'd foolishly left behind in his room. 

After hastily dry swallowing two pills, he settles back on his bed just as the boiler takes a last groaning, shudder before going out. It doesn't take long for the chill to start seeping in with every buffet of wind about the eaves. While it's bearable to him, he wonders about the woman, and realises he's got no clue where she went. Or when she'll come back. It comes to him then that perhaps she'd realised this wasn't feasible and went back to London or something. He's still got a bit of food left from last night, but who knows how long that might have to last. And now, with no heat...

 

 

Dragging herself out of bed with a groan, Rose curses the blaring alarm. As it's already the fourth time since she first hit snooze, there is little time left to dawdle. Other than the sound of the storm continuing to howl outside, the cottage is silent other than the fitful wheezes of the boiler. It doesn't sound like it's got much life left in it, and she just hopes it holds out long enough for her to take a shower.

The floor is beyond frigid as she practically runs to the loo after a panicked glance at the clock. Goosebumps cover her arms as she hurriedly strips off and subjects herself to what turns out to be an absolutely freezing shower. Like icecubes it is, despite the continuous sounds of the water heater struggling to survive, and she hates every minute of it.

As she trots back to her room, a glance at the door across from her own shows no signs of movement, and fortunately no signs of him. As bad as things are starting out, at least he's not going see her in nowt but a towel at the arsecrack of dawn.

Of course she'd not gotten anything unpacked the previous night, she finds, and in yesterday's rush nothing was sorted. Cursing even louder, she clutches her towel for the little bit of warmth it provides and digs even deeper into her suitcase. "Socks, underwear, bra, shirt... Where's the bloody shirt??!"

It takes a bit for her to find the clothes she needs, her spare uniform seeming to have been left behind in London. But the clock is still ticking away, and at this rate she's going to be late on her first day. Shivering and cursing under her breath, Rose keepy checking the time on her mobile, while telling herself the entire time that the coffee would warm her up. But of course it's not to be, cos of course the quaint little cottage in the back of beyond doesn't have anything in. 

She glances in on her unexpected roommate, finds him somewhat awake, but no where near coherent. Not that she's got time to do more than quickly tell him she's going out and to give him some instructions she dearly hopes he'll follow and grab his leg brace in case he's feeling daft. She really doesn't think that him being left alone all day is exactly a good idea, but needs must. All she can hope is that better sense prevails.

But there's really no time to spare as she pulls on her boots and rushes out the door, juggling her keys, laptop bag, and everything else as she goes. The rain greets her, soaking her hair as a gust of wind almost throws her off balance as she runs to the SUV. 

The vehicle starts with a bit of hesitation, motor sputtering fruitlessly before finally coming to life with a half-hearted roar. She really needs to get it seen at the garage, and has done for months. If only she could find the time... 

The narrow track that leads back to the road proper is little more than a trail of mud linked puddles, interspersed with more holes than she remembers from the night before. Leaves blown off by the winds swirl through the air as she speeds through the ruts. Still shivering and cursing, damp hair clinging to her shoulders as she reaches over to give the car's heater a thump while swerving around a pothole. But no joy, it too has decided not to work on this otherwise blessed morning. She turns to give it another whack, when something catches her eye. Slamming the brakes on, she narrowly avoids something darting across the road. 

It's still too dark to make out its features in dim light of early morning, but she knows whatever it was was too large to be a sheep. It didn't quite look human, either. Which is a relief, since she would rather not repeat the events of a few months ago. For a moment she almost fears it's him, but no, even he'd not be mad enough to try scarpering in his current condition. Not in this weather, at least. A sudden burst of hope comes to her then, as she realises that there very well could be something going on here. This might not be an utterly pointless diversion after all. 

Finally making it back onto the cracked macadam of the road into Storiths, Rose sighs. Almost there, and according to the clock, not yet late. There's hope yet. Also, there's coffee ahead. The views are rather lovely in a sort of dreary way, though not exactly impressive. Even with the leaden skies looming overhead and the hills pressing in on one side while the high hedges box the road in on the other as she drives to the village, occasionally peeking through to show what lies beyond. Low-lying cottages and small farms dot the hillsides, barely glimpsed in the morning gloom. While it's not exactly a cheerful looking place, it doesn't look like the sort of place where one gets much excitement happening, either. She's not sure if that'd be a disappointment or a relief, honestly. Even if she's already expecting most of the reported disappearances to be no more than drunks stumbling into places they shouldn't have done and ending up in harm's way. After all, the Strid isn't too far off from here. 

She yawns, trying to wish herself awake and telling herself that at least there's likely to be coffee at the station. Fortunately, despite the streets being exactly as narrow as she'd expected them to be, it's not hard to find. It's just across the square from the pub she'd stopped at the night before, and in keeping with how uneventful as a place like this usually is, there's only one vehicle parked outside. It's the first signs of life she's seen besides whatever it was that went running across the road.

A gust of wind blows her in through the door, rain and leaves following her and startling a young man in uniform who's hanging something on the notice board. He turns, wide-eyed, but not saying anything as he casts an uncertain glance towards the check-in window. 

A curious face looks out, an older, heavy-set man who looks like he's been bored his entire life. He too wears a uniform, but his is slightly more worn. The younger one looks like he just got his the day before. "Can I help you, Miss?" 

All business, Rose strides up and says simply, "Torchwood, here about those disappearances."

"What disappearances?" comes the confused reply.

"The recent ones that were reported in this area," she starts patiently, trying not to let her annoyance show through. Trust that no one here at this hour would even know what she's on about. Only par for the course for the way things are going this morning.

"Are you having a laugh?" the man finally says after an awkward pause. He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head in disbelief, the shy titters of the other one joining in shortly after. "Higgins put you up to this one, aye? Higgins at the pub."

For a moment she's bewildered. The report she'd read said the police had requested assistance, so why...? But no, there's got to be some sort of explanation. Maybe someone higher up didn't bother to tell these two anything, or there's been some sort of miscommunication. Or maybe someone in London's having a laugh after all.

Either way, she's not laughing. 

And either way, she's going to investigate and find out if there's anything untoward going on up here.

Drawing a breath and gritting her teeth, she hopes she can hold her temper long enough it through to these thickheaded twats. So much for things being arranged ahead of time, she thinks to herself. "No, I'm not, and I need your reports immediately."

The laughter comes to an uncertain halt, as the desk sergeant pulls himself to sit straighter. He frowns and narrows his eyes at her. "And what did you say your name was again?" The florid, incredulous face of the desk sergeant only gets more red as she repeats herself. 

"Rose Tyler, Torchwood. Here on those disappearances, like I said."

Grudgingly, the sergeant finally has the PC —apparently named Thomas— to show her to the small cramped room where the files and reports are kept. Eagerly, the bloke — clearly a rookie— presents the pair of cabinets with a grand wave, like he's expecting her to be impressed. And she is... with the layer of dust and that ninety percent of said reports seem to be missing sheep and speeders on the High Street, with the occasional minor theft and teenage mischief thrown in. 

"It's not sorted?" she asks, almost incredulously. At that PC Thomas blushes and shakes his head. 

"Sorry ma'am. Budget cuts, you see..."

With a sigh, she resigns herself to sorting through what looks like a century's worth of bumf. But at least there's one possibility... "Where's the kettle?"

"Sorry, ma'am. The plug shorted out the other day and..." comes the reply and her heart sinks with it.

 _So much for hope_ , she thinks.

 

 

 

The hours tick by, seemingly impossibly long. Bundled against the cold, he avoids sleep for fear of dreams. He'd try chasing after his missing memories, but nothing comes, and thinking just leads his mind in endless circles. The feeling of being adrift, being pulled along by an invisible tide is nearly overwhelming. Panic begins to tug at his nerves, and he sits up, desperate for a distraction. Anything will do, as he's got nothing to anchor himself to, nothing to focus on... except one thing: he could look a the fucking furnace. That was something real, something solid. Something he could lose himself in before his own thoughts drive him spare. 

Ignoring the pain in his leg, he starts searching for the boiler almost frantically. Finally he finds it tucked in a small closet near the bathroom, hidden behind various worn looking cleaning implements. Using the wall to slide himself down so he can sit on the floor, he tosses them aside. There's a small panel on the side of it, edges traced out in patches of rust, that his hands deftly pop off. He's not quite sure what he's doing but things do look vaguely familiar, even if he can't remember when or where he saw them before. Or if he even has, and he's just imagining that it's familiar in any way. It's too dark to see much, and he's not sure what he's looking for, but he keeps poking around in hopes of some kind of success. Skinned knuckles seem to be the sacrifice deemed necessary by whatever deities oversee household boilers as he's soon rewarded by the whump of the furnace coming back on. By the time he manages to get back on his feet after replacing the brush and elderly Hoover he'd moved earlier to back where they belonged, it's sometime in the mid-afternoon. Being closer to the small lounge, he drags himself to the sofa instead of his bed. Stretching himself out, he props his good leg over one arm and before carefully settling his legs over the other. There's a trick to keeping the bad one supported, but he manages. He's grateful he'd brought his pills with him on his travels this time, as he swallows two more and turns on the television. 

There's some sort of program on where some man in a suit interviews people who seem too outrageous to be real. None of it really makes any sense to his mind, it's all too strange. There's two women arguing over which one is more deserving of the affections of a green lizard man, one declaring that she was doing more to advance the rights of the Silurians or whoever they were. Whatever this world is, he's pretty sure his own isn't quite this strange. 

Or at least he hopes it isn't.

The heat from the radiators combine with the growing warmth inside his stomach as the pills begin to take effect. The feeling of being adrift is returning, but this time it's welcomed. The tide is pulling at him, but this time he's letting it take him. Numbing waves wash over him, and he just lets himself sink, neither flight nor fight occuring to him. Even the frantic raving of spurned lovers begins to fade into a meaningless drone. All of existence narrows down to a single point where self is only an abstract concept and nothing has any meaning. Nor does it have to, because somethings just are. Things like one breath after another, blood rushing through veins, and molecules drifting apart as the bonds decay. It's all down there waiting; he can feel it pulling, calling him, tempting him to let himself be carried along, but pulls back. Drifting back upwards, his breath catches as a loud thump makes him resurface slightly. For a moment he braces for the soldiers his mind immediately conjures up, but then the door closes with an even louder thump. 

"Bloody Yorkshire," he hears faintly, along with footsteps walking down the hallway and the sounds of doors opening and closing. "Hello?"

For a moment he considers speaking up, but instead waits. He's barely gotten his eyes open, when she comes back and enters the lounge, her face tight and eyes slightly panicked when she finally sights him. "You're still here, then."

She sounds almost relieved and he's not sure he can relate to that feeling.

It might be the pills, or the fact he barely slept, or the fact he's slightly miffed over her taking his brace that makes him decide to just watch her silently. Her hair is damp from the rain, slicked back and tucked behind her ears and her coat is still dripping. His eyes catching the trail of mud and water tracked in by her boots. He tries to recall if he saw a mop earlier or not as she begins to fidget awkwardly. "Pass the time okay?" she attempts. "I brought food—"

That's one less worry, he notes. He tries to think of a response, and failing that, settles for blinking. 

"You okay, mate?"


	12. Chapter 12

Apparently the closest shop with kettles and coffee for sale is in Harewood, meaning it's even later before she finally gets back to the cottage. Meaning it's pissing down even harder by the time she manages to shoulder her way through the front door, after the recalcitrant lock finally gives over. Meaning she's even more soaked as she struggles to not drop carrier bags, laptop bag, and one knee brace. Meaning she's even more cross when she first sees the state of him.

After nearly falling in the puddle her own boots have made around her feet, she gives up and just lets things fall as they may. The laptop bag's padded for such things, and as for the kettle... _it's a kettle._ As long as it works after this, she can't be bothered. Before anything, she's got to make sure the wanted fugitive she had perhaps foolishly left to his own devices all day hasn't tried to bugger off into the hills, injuries or no. But no, he's still here alright. Not that she would have expected him to have even made it as far as the lounge or anything, not with that leg being what it was, but a pair of feet hanging over the end of the sofa caught her eye as she glanced in on her way by. And there he is, stretched out with a vague expression nearing bliss and eyes half shut. 

"You're still here, then." 

A slow blink in return, slight confusion briefly crossing his features before they relax into utter indifference.

For a moment she worries, wonders if he's fallen and hit his head or something. Then she remembers the bottle of pills she'd given him and wonders how many he took. Clearly too many if he's like this. 

"You alright, mate?"

If she was expecting an answer, then she'd have been sorely disappointed. Instead he blinks up at her blearily, vacant eyes hidden behind his fringe as he lays sprawled on the sofa. She wants to ask if this is normal behavior for him, something she can expect on the regular. After all, when one has spent an entire day sorting through badly organized police files, this is _exactly_ what one wishes to come back to find. Not. But it's pointless to ask, cos of course he doesn't know. He doesn't even know his own name, can't even go get a semblance of a life for him started so instead, gets to do this. Gets to take enough drugs until he forgets what planet he's on, along with everything else he's forgotten, while others have responsibilities. Responsibilities that mean they have to keep keeping on, facing the cold, hard light of reality so others can keep obliviously circling the drain. 

In that moment she envies him, right up until a sudden flash of startlement followed by embarrassed regret crosses his face. He probably didn't even realise she was there, thought she was just another figment of a fevered imagination. But now he struggles to sit up, one leg dropping to the floor, while a hand scrabbles at the back of the sofa. He levers himself partially upright, only to fall back with a barely muffled groan. 

Other than his breathing, the only sound is the droning of the telly in the background, the storm seeming to have paused itself. Perhaps it too is waiting to see what'll happen next. Or perhaps it's just that she's already gotten used to the noise. Either way, she can't just stand here all evening, waiting to see if he's going to get up or no.

"You want a hand with that?" she asks, knowing it's rather futile. He's bulky enough that there's probably little she can do besides embarrass him further. 

His head comes up slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet hers briefly before drifting shut. For a moment he sways before his hand slips and he flops back down to once again lay flat on the sofa. 

"Suit yourself, then," she says in exasperation, rolling her eyes. It's been a long day, her dinner grabbed from the sole takeaway in town besides the pub is getting cold, and she really wants to get the kettle on. There's a cup of coffee with her name on, and she can practically hear it calling her. All day she'd waited, all bloody day, and if other people want to lounge about, completely off their tits, that's just bloody well _fine_ by her.

After coffee she finally starts to feel more human, slowly thawing out as she sits in a rundown kitchen, still wearing her dripping mack. It's only then she realises she can hear the faint thrum of the boiler, and notices that it's far warmer in here than it had been. She can't even see her breath, like she could this morning. Upon looking about, she sees the faint scuff marks on the rug in front of the cupboard the furnace's kept in. Now suspicious, she once again goes into the lounge. 

As before, he's still stretched out — now sound asleep and snoring faintly. She notes then the scrapes on his hands and a smear of soot across his cheek. 

Understanding comes then, as well as her own regrets. She can't imagine how long it must have taken him, or even how he'd managed to do it, what with him claiming to not remember anything. For what he did or didn't know, he was clearly handy enough to figure things out. Enough that the proof was currently keeping them both from freezing their arses off, at least. She wonders then what else he knows, what else he's capable of. But of course he's not telling, not when he's currently passed out. 

Not that he'd be likely to when awake, either.

But with a sudden twitch of a hand, a frown creases his brow for a moment as he mumbles something under his breath. It's something she doesn't catch and Rose pulls back, expecting him to wake suddenly. Instead, he seems to relax further, one hand dropping to the floor as the other grabs faintly at the back of the sofa before falling against his chest. 

For the moment all is still. 

Briefly she worries about the risk of overdose, wondering how on Earth she'd get him help if he did. It's not like she can call an ambulance, innit? Worries that this is a sign of things to come, and wonders what she'll do if it is. She's got a job to do, besides keeping him hidden somehow, and God, she'd never thought this through. Never thought any of it through, during that fateful moment when she decided to stay silent when the call went out over the Comms unit. But still, she'd felt responsible. Still does, honestly, and now here she is, staring down at some bloke she doesn't know from Adam and wondering if he's going to die on her or something. 

It's almost enough to laugh at, like the universe is taking the piss or something, and she's not even sure how her life has come to this.

This is not what she'd planned for herself, nor expected, much less even wished. Not at all. _If only the universe could have been even the slightest bit kinder, if He had been just the slightest bit quicker, if the Time Lords had been just the slightest bit slower..._

But no, she's got to focus on the here and now. And for the now...

A hand pressed against a wrist reveals a steady pulse, and his breathing is even and unlabored enough that she thinks he'll be fine. It might be better if he was on his side, in case he gets sick, but she's not sure she can manage that much. As easy as he is to push about when awake, she doubts he'd be as compliant in his sleep. Plus, she thinks, he seems comfortable enough at the moment. 

In the background the television drones on. The news is on, the newsreader talking about tornados in Australia, continuing cleanup efforts after the Cybermen in Denmark, and Russian tradetalks with the Slitheen. Typical, everyday shit, unlike the mess that's become her life. It all fades into a meaningless noise in the background before she catches the words 'still on the run from Torchwood'.

They'd used a different picture this time, one from the first night, when he'd still had his own clothes, shortly after arrival at the hospital. Tousled hair and wide eyes, despite him being completely out of it and drugged to the gills just like he is now, but there was still something different. Something she can't place at first. Something besides the weight he'd lost since then, or how much the dye in his hair has grown out, showing the greyed roots. And more than just the lingering air of angered resentment at being trapped in confusing circumstances that's present even now, even as he starts snoring once more. She's still not sure what it is, but she understands his feelings; she has them too, even after all this time. 

The universe isn't kind, and just like him, no one's coming to save her from it all. Not ever again.

Wordlessly she leaves and brings back the other takeaway tray she had picked up in town, wondering if he likes kebabs and chips, before retiring to her room to continue going through some of the files she'd brought home from the station.

 

 

Bright light wakes him as the morning sun sneaks through the curtains. He tries to turn away, tries to pull the blankets over him to shield him from the blinding glare, but finds there's no blankets or anywhere to go as there seems to be something blocking him. Some sort of upholstery with a faded pattern of flowers done in pink and white greets his eye when he cracks one open. The scent of damp fills his nose as he lays there blinking, momentarily lost. He's not sure where he is, breaths coming quick and harsh in his throat as he struggles to remember. Faint memories of lizard people as displeased blondes come back to him, and the scattered remnants of the day come back to him in an unwelcome rush. 

He groans and shuts his eyes again, wishing once more for the oblivion of sleep. All he'd wanted was a few hours without pain, without the need to think, without the risk of nightmares. 

And he'd gotten it, but at what cost? 

Now there's an ache in his back that's echoed by the ones in shoulder and knee, his head feels like it's simultaneously stuffed with cotton and about to come apart at the seams, and sleep just isn't happening. 

The cottage is silent around him as he sits up, unsteady as a newborn calf. Something suddenly thumps against his back and he turns quickly. Relieved to see she's returned his brace, he quickly puts it on, pausing briefly to stare at the styrofoam container nearby on the floor. 

Cautiously he looks in after he's got his leg sorted. If he was feeling better he'd be interested, but here's a slight churning in his stomach that makes him wary of tucking in to Döner at whatever hour this is. The clock on the wall looks like it stopped sometime around when Elvis was still touring. If there even had been an Elvis in this fucked up world he's found himself in. Either way, he doesn't dare risk that much on an empty stomach. 

Besides the slight nausea, he feels dried out and warm— far too warm, enough that he feels feverish and ill, muscles trembling slightly when he leans against the kitchen sink. A trembling hand feels about blindly until he finds Rose's discarded coffee mug. He rinses it before filling it with water and drinks it down as the feelings of warmth spread through his system. For a moment the world seems to spin and he closes his eyes until it passes, counting time through drawn breaths that rasp through gritted teeth. 

Gradually the trembling stops, the dizziness passes, and the rushing of blood in his ears fades to merely the sound of him gasping for air as he leans against the worktop. He feels like shit, and somehow all of this is familiar. He's been here before, done this before, felt this way before — somewhere else far away. 

When he was someone else. 

The thought startles him, makes him gasp and quickly tamps that line of thinking down. Focuses instead on the physical, letting the various aches and discomforts take over his mind. His stomach is in knots still, even as he slowly straightens. There's a kink in his neck from the way he'd slept and a knot at the base of his spine that refuses to let go even as he tries to cautiously stretch. Fortunately the dizziness doesn't return, even if the sluggish dreamlike state of his mind persists. Perhaps sweating the remaining drugs out of his system would help, but no, he shouldn't. 

A sudden longing fills him. He can't remember the last time he'd moved about freely outdoors. Can't remember the last time he'd had the chance to feel the wind in his face. And look, there's a small, narrow window over the sink that he'd somehow missed seeing before. A brief look shows a tantalizing view of desolate hills that make the longing turn to almost an unbearable ache in his chest. It almost takes his breath and he looks away, closes his eyes against it, the images yet lingering as if engraved upon his thoughts.

He misses his freedom, even if he can't really remember it —can't remember more than a jumble of hospitals, unfamiliar rooms and people, and little buildings that defy logic— and it's right there. Right there before him...

He opens his eyes again, forcing himself to calm down, even as his heart skips in excitement. He's too old for such childish joy and anticipation. This sort of thing left him long ago, and yet... that key — that strange thing that seemingly renders him invisible somehow comes to mind and he pauses, eyes fixed unseeing on the paintchipped doors of the kitchen cupboards. 

It's a terrible idea. It really is. His leg is still throbbing from yesterday, and his back certainly hasn't forgiven him for the contortions he'd done just to get into that stupid fucking boiler. How far could he even make it like this? Clearly it's just the lingering effects of the drugs making him think this way, because it'd be beyond idiotic. It's absolutely fucking moronic, is what it is.

Very much so. 

But yet, as he stands on that hillside just a short time later, a cold breeze buffeting at his back, it's wonderful. He doesn't care if it's the drugs, or if he's lost his fucking mind. Or even if his leg is a throbbing mess — he doesn't regret it at all. How could he when an unforgiving sky looms overhead, threatening more rain as the cold-killed grass soaks his shoes? And not a single wall or ceiling in sight, either.

The air is sharp around him, blowing his hair into his eyes as he looks about him with something approaching happiness. The sunshine of earlier is long gone, sky hemmed in by dark clouds. In the distance he can see a lone bird flying, struggling against the winds as it tumbles along. It dips and dives, before disappearing over the top of the hill and he turns, eyes roving over the unfamiliar views. 

Far below is the cottage, and he shies away from the sight. He doesn't want to go back, not yet anyway. Not when the hills are out here, unexplored by him and soothingly bare of anything that will make him think of what is, what was, and what might be. This isn't like anywhere he thinks he knows, and for a moment that is as equally comforting as it is vaguely terrifying. This might as well be an alien planet, and in a way it is. This is definitely not his world, whatever and wherever that was, but for now, this is exactly what he wants: to wander without restrictions or observation. Nor any sense of direction, at that. _Keine Ahnung wo ich bin, aber das ist mir ganz und gar egal,_ he tells himself as he sets off upwards.

Even if the hill is steep enough that he struggles slightly, muscles unused to walking this far, he presses onward. Taking his time, he occasionally stops to gently rub the muscles of his protesting legs. He's gone at least a kilometer, maybe more already when he finally crests the hill, eyes searching in vain for the bird he'd seen before. 

Only an equally empty hill meets his eye, with the same brown, fraying grasses struggling to remain standing. Boulders lie scattered about the hillside like shattered rubble tossed about long abandoned ruins. For a moment he can imagine that he's the first to lay eyes on this place, even as he knows it's not true. As desperately lonely as this place seems with its empty spaces and howling winds, a few strands of wool caught on a thistle and the vague shape of a tumbled down stone wall prove the lie. In the distance he can see more hills, with the faint whitish shapes of sheep in the distance. The narrow, winding track of a road snakes between hills and there's a sudden muted glint of light on glass as a car moves along its length.

Suddenly feeling almost bereft at the loss of being the only person to have wandered these hills, he lowers himself down to sit. Not that they could see him, what with that filter thing, but the instinct to hide still compels him just the same. It has soon passed from sight, disappearing between hills, as he lets himself breathe normally again. 

A light sweat coats his skin, but the earlier illness seems passed, his headache long since eased away in the crisp air. He still feels warm, but it is now the warmth of having been using muscles kept idle for too long. It seems like it's been forever since he's felt like this— unfettered, unwatched, and unencumbered. He knows it can't last, knows he cannot stay here and that no matter how much he wishes, he's got to go back. There's still too much he cannot remember, he's still lost in an unfamiliar world, and he's still on the run from space rhinos. 

He snorts at the damned absurdity of it all, huffing to himself as he bends to smooth his hand over the tops of the grass beside him. Dried blades twist between his fingers, the green of a summer long since gone only leaves bare hints around the edges. He wonders what it was like then, wonders if this place exists in his own world and somehow knows it must. After all, Rose had said there'd been an England in her world, and probably one in his too, what with his limited grasp of the language. He wonders then if there's copies of the people who had once known him, people here who mirrored those he'd known there and if he could find them, their faces would stir his memories. But no, he thinks, then I'd know what I'm missing. And that would just be too much.

Knowing he's stayed too long, spent too much time daydreaming like a fool, and pushes himself to his feet once again. The feelings of warmth are beginning to be replaced with a knife-edged chill and for a moment he wishes he'd grabbed the thin jacket from his room. It was almost a miracle he'd remembered shoes in his rush out the door, all sensibilities discarded. The wind picks up again, and another gust pushes him, almost forces him to walk, limbs once again stiff and uncertain as he starts. Gravity pulls him downhill, urges him towards the small wood he sees huddled against the slope, the aches and pains long forgotten. 

The trees seem to welcome him, bare twisting branches sweeping overhead, while briars pull at his shirt and track pants. Seeming to pull him further inward, he doesn't resist, pushing on to find himself in a small clearing. The lingering uncertainty and unease that have long since been his constant companions slip away, as he tips his head back and once again glimpses the bird from before. It's far over his head, flitting along effortlessly now. A smile crosses his face as he watches it sweeping back and forth across the sky. Finally it turns and once again disappears from sight and he once more looks to his surroundings.

A moss-shrouded oak looms before him, while a hush settles around him. A second one lies beside it, fallen perhaps in the previous days' storm, its roots now reaching for the sky. The soft musk of disturbed soil lingers on, the scent swept toward him on a soft breeze. A few leaves tumble and toss at his feet, but that's the only movement to be seen. Not a creature stirs, the wood seemingly now as lifeless and barren as the hillsides above, but nevertheless he feels like someone's watching him. 

Or something. 

"Hallo?" he hazards, forgetting the Perception Filter around his neck. A chill runs up his spine then, and he suppresses a shiver. "Hallo? Ist jemand da?"

Of course there's no answer, but that's far from a reassurance. Looking about him, he sees nothing but the brownish orange of fallen leaves and the thick ranks of trees that seem to be leaning in, waiting. He's not sure what they're waiting for, and while something tells him tells him he's normally well at home in the forest, he most certainly is not here. 

Straining his ears, he catches only the sounds of an occasional branch creaking above, the hushed groan of straining trunks, and there... the sound of moving water. At that, his body reminds him that it has been several hours since he drank anything. Several long hours, at that. 

He follows the sound, ignoring his returning sense of unease.


End file.
